


Fated

by PersephoneRage



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:49:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8714584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersephoneRage/pseuds/PersephoneRage
Summary: Abruptly awakened from sleep, Jezreel is summoned for her Harrowing unaware that nothing will ever be the same. Her life has always been under the control of others but, after that fateful night, she finds she must forge her own destiny. A destiny that will be the desperate salvation - or inescapable doom - of all Thedas... *Some material non-canonical/Rating may change in later chapters*





	1. The Harrowing

Prologue

 

_And now is the golden city blackened,_

_by each step you take in my Hall,_

_Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting,_

_you have brought sin into heaven,_

_and doom upon the world._

\- Canticle of Threnodies 8:13

 

 

The Chantry teaches us that it is the hubris of men which brought the darkspawn into our world. The mages had sought to usurp Heaven, but instead they destroyed it. They were cast out; twisted and cursed by their own corruption. They returned as monsters, the first of the darkspawn. They became a Blight upon the lands, unstoppable and relentless. The Dwarven kingdoms were the first to fall and from the Deep Roads the darkspawn drove at us over and over, until finally, and mages, barbarians and kings… the Grey Wardens sacrificed everything to stem the tide of darkness – and prevailed. It has been many centuries since that we neared annihilation. Until the Grey Wardens came. Men and women from every race…warriors victory and we have kept our vigil. We have watched and waited for the darkspawn to return; but those who once called us heroes… have forgotten. We are few now and our warnings have been ignored for too long. It may even be too late, for I have seen with my own eyes what lies on the horizon. Maker help us all.

-  _Excerpt from the Diary of Duncan,_

_Commander of the Grey, Ferelden_

 

~oOo~

 

 

 

On a cliff overlooking the dark waters of Lake Calenhad, stands the tower fortress that is home to the Circle of Magi. This tower is the only place in Ferelden where mages may study their art among others of their kind. Within the high stone walls, the Circle practices its magic and trains its pupils in the proper use of their powers. But the Circle Tower is as much a prison as a refuge. The ever vigilant Templars of the Chantry watch over all mages constantly alert for any signs of corruption. This gilded cage is the only world Jezreel knows. Found to be very sensitive to magic at a young age, she was torn from her home and grafted here as an Apprentice. Having been found to have exceptional magical ability, she has been raised to an Accepted, a mage who has mastered both basic and advanced forms of magic. As an Accepted, she should now be concerned with choosing a specialization and perfecting her magical abilities in that discipline – the final stage of a mage's studies. Fate, however, seems to have a different plan…

 

~oOo~

  

Chapter 1:

The Harrowing

 

 

"She's not ready. You cannot expect her to survive."

 

"We have run out of time. We have no choice but to force her to take the Harrowing…"

 

"Are you sure there is no other way?"

 

"Yes. If the coming darkness is to be defeated, she will be instrumental."

 

"She is too young!"

 

"She has unimaginable Arcane power. I would venture to enlighten you, my friend: even being a veritable infant in her magical abilities…she is far more powerful than I."

 

Irving! Surely you're exaggerating...that's preposterous."

 

"Revan, she is, without doubt, the most powerful mage I have ever encountered."

 

"You cannot be serious!"

 

The look on Irving's face assured him the words were sincere truth.

 

 

~oOo~

 

 

 

"Jezreel! Maker's Breath, wake yourself! The First Enchanter requires your presence in the Chamber of the Arcane."

Jezreel awoke to the firm persistence of a Templar. Sleep clung heavily to her consciousness.  _Irving? The First Enchanter? What in the Maker's Name..?_  She tossed aside the coarse coverings that provided the minimum of warmth in the drafts of the Circle Tower, sat upright on her cot, and gingerly touched her feet to the frigid stone floor. Once rough-hewn it was now smooth with the centuries of lives that had passed across it. She smoothed back her thick, dark mane of curls and caught her breath. As she lifted her groggy eyes to the high windows of the dormitory, she became highly alert - darkness met her gaze. It was black as pitch outside the Tower – not even a glimmer of dawn – and sudden concern gripped her.

What is the hour?" Jezreel called softly at the broad, plate-armored back of the Templar who had nearly reached the door to the main corridor. He stopped short and half turned. It was Cullen.

"Near to the mid-dark," He stated flatly, not looking directly at her.

"Mid-dark!" The startled exclamation brought his gaze to hers. She studied his face intently for several full moments before recognizing the expression only his eyes revealed. An emotion - almost exclusively - foreign to a Templar. His eyes spoke fear.

"Cullen…what…" Jezreel began, confused. He turned sharply on his heel toward the door.

"Do not keep the First Enchanter waiting," he said and with that he disappeared into the corridor. The massive wooden door slammed shut, resounding in the emptiness of the dormitory. Several other Accepted stirred, shifting on their cots at the unwelcome disturbance before continuing their night's repose. Silent concern, morphed into quiet terror –  _what could this possibly mean?_

Jezreel padded apprehensively down the cavernous, vacant corridor toward the Great Stairs leading to the upper floors where the classrooms, instructors' lodgings, libraries, the First Enchanter's study, and the Chamber of the Arcane were housed. The blue electrical sparks of magically summoned torch lights cast foreboding shadows that surged and retreated menacingly across the gothic architecture.

She reached the base of the massive stones steps and drew a long slow breath, attempting to center herself. Her fingers brushed the ornate silver pendant hanging from a leather cord between her breasts. Tucking the talisman under her Accepted robes, Jezreel directed a silent, desperate plea at the Maker and began her ascent.

 

~oOo~

 

"Maker, be merciful," Revan breathed. His legs suddenly weak, Revan sank into the chair facing Irving's large ornate desk. His mind convulsed, trying desperately to grasp the unexpected information that had, moments before, invaded his calm sanity.

Revan was tall, slight of build, and all sharp angles. Intricate tattoos covered his brow and cheeks; the last remnants of his Elven identity in a clan of wandering Dalish. Irving stared at him silently, allowing him to wrestle with the loss of his paradigm. Finally, he regained his composure and eyed Irving with a steady resolve.

"It is fantastic, Irving. Words scarcely believable - except that you speak them. I know better than to question your soundness of mind." A wry smile tweaked the corners of the First Enchanters lips. "So then tell me, my old friend, are darkspawn truly drawing so close to the surface? How long do we have to prepare her?" the questions tumbled from Revan's mind. An unexpected voice answered:

"I will take her with me directly – once she survives The Harrowing. We depart for Ostagar in two days."

Revan startled to his feet as a deadly soft voice with the edge of a razor pierced the room. In the shadows, near the arched window of Irving's office, he turned in surprise to locate the source of that voice. He had not realized they were not alone. Irving sighed, long fingers absently stroked his wiry gray beard; the lines around his eyes deepened as he pressed them shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Revan, this is Duncan," Irving replied automatically to his look of askance, "of the Grey Wardens." With that introduction, Irving's full intentions became abundantly clear.

"Irving, you would allow her to be conscripted?! This is inconceivable..."

Duncan stepped into to circle of light and regarded Revan with the practiced eye of a life-long fighter. Now illumined by the glow of lamplight, Revan was able to see the Warden clearly; quickly assessing him from head to foot. Duncan was somewhat short for a human but the ring-mail he wore accentuated his strong frame and firm jaw line; a physical prowess counterpointed by a deadly litheness. Dusky complexion; the silver-streaked, jet black hair that brushed his shoulders was held half back by a leather cord. Hard, chiseled lines on a weathered face; scarred by years of battle. Dark, grey eyes; eyes that looked to pierce the living as easily as the re-curve sword and breaker cross-sheathed upon his back. The lines of his face softened into an amused smile and Revan felt himself involuntarily tense by the unassuming - and predatory - nature of the man.

"The hope, of course, is that she would consent to join us willingly - I shall only employ the Rites of Conscription if forced to it." His deep voice resonated in the quiet.

Revan could not suppress a scoffing laugh: "And just how do you plan to convince her? Join us for endless fighting and a violent death at the claws of..."

Enough Revan," Irving's face hardened with his words. "Her involvement is inevitable – she is fated, Revan." The elf's eyes widened as pieces of information began to carouse through his mind and arrange themselves into an unsettling mosaic.

"I know her well," Irving continued, "and she will do what is needed - no matter what the...unsavory possibilities."

Revan sat down with a reluctant sigh:"I know her well also, Irving, I am fond of her - as I know you are - and I have more than a little compunction in simply consigning her to such a frighteningly violent future." He looked at Duncan with more than a little accusation.

Irving's voice took on the patient tone of a long-suffering mentor and, for a moment, Revan felt a wave of nostalgia; being scolded by Irving as a young, headstrong Apprentice.

"Revan, I have consulted with Duncan at length. There is no doubt in my mind that a true Blight of catastrophic proportions is eminently possible. The Grey Wardens have no direct knowledge of an Archdemon as yet; however, what Duncan has reported to me of the situation at Ostagar is of monumental concern. It is Duncan's hope that, by assembling a powerful force at Ostagar, the Blight may be ended as quickly as it has begun. Her aura, her raw magical talent alone will be strategically indispensible to King Cailan and his army. I am convinced that the fate of Ferelden may well rest with her and Duncan's meager force of Wardens already assembled. If the Blight cannot be stopped entirely, Duncan hopes to at least cripple the darkspawn forces enough to allow for reinforcements from the Grey Wardens of Orlais. Her part in either prospect however, rests upon the Harrowing tonight and her success - or failure."

"You concede she may, in fact, fail?" Revan's voice was bitter.

"She is the only pupil within the tower powerful enough to be of strategic aid to the Wardens and, I believe – Andraste willing – strong enough to survive their…initiation."

"Ah, the notorious 'Joining Ceremony.' Shadow and secrecy of a vicious degree –and you would subject her to it!" cried Revan. "The Grey Wardens are so clandestine of their rituals." Irving was silent a moment, allowing Revan to vent his fear and frustration.

"And our Harrowing, Revan?" Irving's voice was coaxing but the point clearly made. "I have no guarantee of her success – in the Harrowing or the Joining. I am...fond of her...yes, but my personal affection for a favored student is irrelevant to the evil upon us and the measures that must now be taken for the good of all. She is fated and I believe she has been gifted by the Maker for just this purpose. There is no alternative."

"Rational and calculated as ever; of course, you are correct, Irving. Will you tell her before…?" Revan's words trailed off with a hesitant knock at the chamber door.

_Not yet. She must face this trial of fire first_ , Irving's voice was clear inside Revan's mind and he nodded in unspoken acquiescence as the door opened and a Templar entered.

He approached them quickly, stopping in front of the massive wooden desk, directly opposite Irving. He was tall and broad-shouldered like many of his order; his youth dampened by years of hard training. His wavy, red-blonde hair fell across his brow and trailed into his eyes as he touched his right fist to the left breast of his platemail and bowed stiffly in salute.

I have delivered your message as requested, Ser, she is on her way to the Chamber."

"Very good," Irving nodded, "Wait Cullen, there is something else."

Cullen stopped where he had started to turn; his broad shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly. Cullen leveled his eyes to Irving's sharp gray gaze, his face stoic. Irving continued: "Cullen, she is taking The Harrowing tonight. You are to stand Guard with Greagoir until she has finished the test - one way or the other." Cullen's eyes went wide for a long instant.

“Ser, I had suspected that would be requested of me, but..." Cullen faltered. It was not his place to question Irving on this matter.

"It is not a request, so out with it, Cullen. I shall not be offended if you speak freely," Irving said gently.

Cullen paused, uncertainly, before emotional turmoil overwhelmed him. "You cannot mean this First Enchanter - she is barely an Accepted, only just raised from the rank of an Apprentice! The chance that she would survive The Harrowing – she has not been prepared and if she fails I... I cannot bear the thought of..." He stopped short as his voice broke but his true fear was already betrayed; he uttered a silent oath, cursing himself for his lack of restraint.

Irving regarded Cullen with somber sympathy and Duncan observed him with a distant pity, while Revan gazed at him in overt astonishment. For a Templar to become attached to a mage, of any mastery, was a grave offense – and an unspeakable danger – according to the Order's High Court and their superiors in the Chantry.

Templars existed as the enforcement of the Chantry to regulate magic and hunt down those mages who chose to live as Apostates; practicing magic outside the strict rules and absolute control of the Chantry and The Circle of Magi. Templar vows forbid them from ever seeking wealth or acknowledgement and bound them to a life of service. For a Templar to marry was extraordinarily uncommon – requiring special dispensation from the Order – and marriage to a mage would be considered…well…sacrilege. He would be disgraced, or worse, should the Chantry or Templar Order ever suspect.

"Duncan, Revan," Irving spoke casually, as the Templar's outburst had been nothing extraordinary. "If you would proceed to the Chamber of the Arcane and see if Jezreel and Captain Greagoir are there yet? I will finish speaking with Cullen."

_I will deal with this Revan – Greagoir is the Knight-Commander and will have no compassion for the boy. He need not be told unless I determine it so._  Irving's voice projected once more into Revan's mind.

Duncan bowed and exited soundlessly on the wooden floor which never failed to creak. Revan rose, his gaze oscillating between the Templar and the First Enchanter in stunned silence. With a nod and an absent-minded: "As you wish, Irving" Revan followed Duncan out across the boards that protested under his comparatively negligible weight.

As the door clicked softly shut, Cullen sank to a knee and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders slumped. Irving walked around the large, ornate desk to stand in front of the Templar. He leaned against the desk and stooped slightly, his voice adopting a soothing tone:

"Cullen, your destiny entwines with hers only as far as standing the Guard for her during The Harrowing. You know that there can be no true future together. Regardless of the dire circumstances which have necessitated this unfortunate course, the fact remains that she is a Mage and you a Templar. You know it is forbidden."

"I know, Ser, but I have been...partial...to her for some time. I don't even know if she suspects but..." Cullen's voice faltered with sadness. His lifted his gaze from his hands and Irving was surprised to see his face was damp.

"No." Irving leaned forward to place a firm hand on the young man's shoulder. "Cullen, if you cannot bear to Guard her during The Harrowing, how would you expect to do so against the innate danger of life as a mage. Do you see? You will heal in time but you know it is not possible. Compose yourself, son."

"Yes, Ser," Cullen passed a rough hand across his eyes and drew himself up to his full height. He nodded with bitter resignation and Irving sighed regretfully: "Come, they will be waiting."

 

~oOo~

 

Jezreel stood in the middle of the vast circular Chamber and marveled at its sweeping beauty. The ornate carvings, resembling graceful trees with intricate leaves, that rambled along the arched walls were crowned by a single window; a large, orb of stained glass in the precise center of the domed ceiling. The opulent colors of the glass and painstakingly carved filigree of the woodwork were breathtaking and eerily life-like.

The room was bare of any furnishing, save a mysterious stone font in the center of the room, where the solitary opening of stained glass sheathed it in an unnatural glow of shimmering moonlight. The austere beauty was mesmerizing. The font hummed and glittered with strong Arcane magic that pushed and pulled on Jezreel. She had never been in the Chamber and those who had never spoke of what happened there.

She shivered without really knowing why. An unsettled feeling washed over her – the strong, unmistakable sensation of being watched.  _I wish Irving would hurry - I don't like this._

 

~oOo~

 

From the deep shadows of the Chamber, Duncan observed his new "recruit" upon whom so great a burden would fall. She was half-Elven, a rarity of itself, and above average height for even her human lineage. Her figure was trim and graceful enough to put her at ease among the Dalish but with a subtle power to her build that would impress an Orzammar warrior. A thick mass of dark curls framed her face and spilled over her shoulders, cascading down nearly to her waist. Her delicate ears were slightly pointed and not as prominent as those of full-Elven blood but Duncan noticed she was careful to keep them hidden beneath her dark mane. Her translucent skin and smooth features were inset with prismatic eyes that any Denerim noblewoman could envy; though, she would not be considered beautiful, at least, not in the common sense of the term. Irving had confided in him that, even without her potent magical ability, she was a… how had he phrased it? A " _singularity_ ".

Even in the almost lightlessness of the vast chamber, Duncan could see those eyes, kaleidoscopic in appearance and piercingly intelligent. At that moment she looked directly at him, her head tilted curiously, though it was not possible she could have actually perceived him in the anonymity of the deep shadows. Duncan knew it usually took many years – decades even – for a full mage to develop such keen sensitivity and attunement to energy that she already possessed; her instincts and magical capacity obviously extending her awareness beyond the bounds of her physical senses.  _She knows I'm here. Powerful indeed, Irving, there is hope yet._

 

~oOo~

 

Revan stood silent, apprehensive. He was roused from his reverie by Jezreel, as she shifted slightly, intent on something undetectable in the shadows. He cast a furtive glance at the Knight-Commander. Tall and battle-scarred, Greagoir's appearance was as harsh and unforgiving as his nature; hardened and unyielding in his belief that mages were the greatest danger to the world and must be controlled at all costs.

Revan certainly bore no love for the man or his stringent reign within the Circle. An unconventional thought wandered through his mind: perhaps Jezreel would be better off – happier even – fighting darkspawn than living under the tyranny the Chantry and its Templars governed the Circle with. Revan shook his head, banishing the thought quickly.  _She is scarcely 23 years. Still so young, so inexperienced. No doubt she is gifted but – is she truly as powerful as Irving claims?_

 

~oOo~

 

Greagoir stood stoic, regarding Revan and Jezreel with silent incense. This midnight ritual was irregular – highly irregular – and he did not approve in the slightest. A reckless chance Irving was taking by his assessment. What could possibly be so important that Irving had forsaken his wits to insist upon this? And who was the enigmatic stranger that had appeared abruptly and then disappeared with Irving - the one with the cross-sheathed swords. What dark secrets were being bandied behind closed doors? Of any mage, he trusted the First Enchanter – a monumental feat for a Templar – but Irving still had his secrets and Greagoir was not accustomed to being kept unaware.  _The Revered Mother will be very displeased with these antics if I decide to inform the Chantry, Irving - very displeased, indeed_.

 

~oOo~

 

All eyes drew to the First Enchanter as he and Cullen entered the massive wooden door to the Chamber. It closed, seemingly under its own power. The muted sound of Irving's soft tread was barely audible above the clicking of the Templar's boots. He moved purposefully to where Revan and Jezreel stood on either side of the mysterious font. Cullen mirrored his stride, ten paces in tow, and stopped precisely as Irving did - maintaining a cautious distance from the three mages. He saluted Greagoir formally before taking a subordinate position at his side. Jezreel glanced at him questioningly but he refused to meet her gaze. Greagoir regarded him sullenly; irritated at the unease that was rank in his demeanor.

"Jezreel."

She shifted her scrutiny to the First Enchanter and assumed an attentive stance respectful of his superior status and authority.

"My child," Irving's voice was grave. "I am afraid a dire need brings us to this unfortunate crossroad. You have only just been raised to Accepted from Apprentice and, under normal circumstances, it would be unthinkable to force you to attempt this test until you had completed your studies another two years. Regretfully, time fights against us. You have been chosen for your... _unprecedented_...talents and capability, and must now undergo a secret task which will determine, by life or death, if you are ready for the coming hardship."

Jezreel's eyes widened subtly -  _life or death?_

"This," Irving continued, "is the test every pupil must pass to come to full rites of their power and recognition as a full mage within the circle. It is a deadly, serious undertaking - The Harrowing." Irving paused, regarding her. Jezreel tightened her jaw. She recognized the term and the dangerous enigma it was to all students within the Circle. Despite growing apprehension, she steeled her nerves and nodded, meeting his gaze doggedly.

"If you refuse the Harrowing, you will be made Tranquil."

Jezreel's heart stopped.  _Tranquil_. A mage severed from the Fade, severed from their magic abilities – emotionless and mechanical – the living dead. Being made Tranquil was the greatest fear of any mage; most considered it a fate worse than death.

"What must I do?"

A proud, fatherly smile lit Irving's face for the briefest instant before Greagoir spoke in a grim manner:

"Magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him,' thus spoke the prophet Andraste as she cast down the Tevinter Imperium, ruled by mages that had brought our world to the edge of ruin. Your magic is both a gift and curse, for by it you are attuned to the dream-realm, the Fade, but in turn the creatures which dwell and hold sway there are drawn to you and seek to use you as a gateway into this world. This is why the Harrowing exists. This ritual sends you into the Fade and there you will face a daemon, armed with only your will. Within the Fade, lurk many manner of apparitions. Vile creatures of that realm that would seek to possess you, to use you as a vessel to cross the Veil into our world, to poison the living with evil and madness."

"This is lyrium," Irving passed a casual hand across the font, "the very essence of magic and the medium which allows us to send your conscious awareness into the dream-realm of the Fade. This font is the doorway, the portal. The Harrowing is a secret out of necessity, child, as every mage must endure this trial by fire – but rare few would do so willingly should the manner of this test be known. Keep your wits about you and remember the Fade is a realm of dreams – the spirits may own it but your own will is real…"

"The girl must do this without aid of others," Greagoir said – a little too severely – and Irving nodded formally, his face tight.

"Revan and I will open the doorway and contain it. Your consciousness will pass into the Fade, where you must face and defeat the daemon which awaits you. There are three – and only three – outcomes to the Harrowing. First: you succeed in your task and return unaltered passing into your full rites of magic. Second: you remain too long and your consciousness becomes trapped in the Fade, permanently separating you from your physical form in this world..."

"Last: you fail," Greagoir interrupted and Irving narrowed his eyes at him in irritation. "If you fail, you will fall prey to possession by an entity of the Fade and we Templars will  _perform our duty_.” The last three words were clipped, deliberate. At that, Jezreel's eyes darted to Cullen; his eyes were downcast but his clouded aura belied the intense emotions raging behind his tightened face. His hands clenched into fists so hard his knuckles showed white and a realization swept over her. If she failed - she would return as an Abomination. If she failed -  _Cullen must kill her_.

"As we succeeded in this rite of passage, so shall you," Irving forced a calm tone despite the tension hanging thick in the air. "Are you ready, my child?"

Jezreel took several deep breaths as her mind reeled but she had no other choice. Her smooth voice had only the slightest tremor as she answered:

"I am."

Irving nodded at Revan and together they began weaving the lyrium, expanding the flows of magic to pry the rift open. The portal suddenly gave way with terrifying silence.

Jezreel stepped forward and extended her hand to touch the glowing, mirror-like structure which floated in, what had been empty air, just moments before. The shimmering substance was cool, impossibly smooth. A low, hypnotic tone subtly assaulted her ears. She watched in horrified fascination as the dense, viscous liquid clung to her hand, enveloping her skin, before sharply wrenching her awareness into the portal. She felt a searing, white hot pain shred her consciousness before darkness took her.

 

~oOo~


	2. Into the Fade

Jezreel awoke with a faint buzzing in her head.  _Dear Maker, that pain_  – she had never experienced such a horrific sensation. She sat up slowly and blinked. No, it wasn't her eyes; the Fade itself was…foggy…hazy. Almost as if it's entire existence were vaporous.

The warped landscape twisted and bulged; a decimated, miasmic wilderness. Strange, dilapidated statues and ramshackle ruins sprawled randomly across the bleak and dismal…were they islands? Yes, islands suspended in murky, turbulent gloom.

Jezreel stood slowly, not quite trusting the ethereal terrain that seemed to shift with the merest flicker of light even though she couldn't necessarily pinpoint any light source. She took a hesitant step. Well, the ground was solid enough – for now.

Jezreel wandered down a rough path without any comprehension of direction. Her mind could not seem to embrace this bizarre dimension. The shadowy, shifting landscape played havoc on her senses - physical and magical. A sudden awareness that she was not alone struck her. Something was watching her. She tried to distinguish the source of the sensation but the Fade made her mind so fuzzy, so disjointed, it was all but impossible to focus. An angry voice, made her whirl about.

"Another poor soul, thrown to the wolves; as fresh and unprepared as ever. It isn't right that they do this – the Templars, the Chantry, the Circle –all those pompous cowards! They treat us like rabid dogs and just continue to get away with it!"

Jezreel's eyes darted among the shadows, searching meticulously.

"It's always the same; it's not your fault," the voice said regretfully. "You're in the same boat I was."

A twitching movement drew her gaze to the ground where a peculiarly large rodent sat on its hindquarters, regarding her with intense sympathy. As much as a rodent could show sympathy she supposed; for a fleeting moment a smile played across her lips and she wanted to laugh at the sight.

"Allow me to welcome you the Fade," the rodent's voice and form morphed dizzyingly for a few interminable moments until a frail, jittery young man stood before her. He wore the robes of an Accepted. "You can call me… well, Mouse."

"Mouse? Not your real name I suppose. You were a mage?" He nodded.

"What do you remember?" asked Jezreel hesitantly.

"I don't really remember much from… before," said Mouse slowly, "The Templars kill you if you take too long, you see. They get nervous that you have failed and don't want to risk anything getting out. That's what they did to me…I think…I have no body to reclaim and you don't have so much time before you end up the same."

"So you took the Harrowing? You know my purpose here?" Jezreel eyed him skeptically.

"There's something here,  _contained_ , just for an Accepted like you. You must face this creature - this daemon - and resist it if you can. That's your way out – or your opponents, if the Templars don't kill you anyway," Mouse's voice was rank with bitterness. "A test for you – a tease for the creatures of the Fade."

"What manner of creature did you face?" Jezreel took a cautious step towards Mouse who flinched under her piercing gaze. He lowered his face uncomfortably.

"I don't remember, I ran away and…I hid. I don't know for how long."

"Anything can die. It  _cannot_  be that simple," Jezreel mused absently, her expression puzzled.

"No, indeed!" Mouse exclaimed. "You would be a fool to just attack everything you see. What you face is powerful, cunning. There are others here – other spirits. They may know more, if you can believe anything you see." He stepped nervously toward her and placed a tentative hand on her forearm as he spoke: "I'll follow you if that's all right. My chance was long ago but you…you may have a way out and I would like to help if I can." Jezreel regarded his hand dubiously before nodding in acquiescence and, without further converse, turned out of his grasp and continued down the winding causeway.

"Wait," called Mouse, " _You didn't give me your name…_ "

She stopped abruptly, his words had inflected strangely and her curious eyes latched onto his:"It's Jezreel." She shook the peculiar feeling from her mind and turned to resume her pace.

Following her down the path, a wry smile tweaked the corners of Mouse's lips.  _How interesting! Jezreel…"blood-guilt"…in the Ancient tongue._  Mouse mused to himself.  _How very...appropriate._

 

~oOo~

 

Mouse trailed along behind Jezreel, his pace flighty and nervous. With her senses finally seeming to acclimate to the strange influences of the dream-realm, she carefully monitored his movements. Being trapped in the Fade could certainly turn the strongest mage into a simpering, nervous lackbone but – however much Jezreel may pity the man – she realized that she had no more reason to trust "Mouse" than any other being she encountered here.

Jezreel walked on in resolute apprehension of what might wait beyond the next boulder, crag, or twist of the brittle and decaying terrain. After several minutes, she noticed a bright white light, dancing like magical flames on a hill some distance away. She could just barely perceive a figure stirring in front of those flames. She stopped so suddenly Mouse nearly tumbled over her.

"What is that light?" She asked. Mouse swept his gaze to where her outstretched arm pointed.

"I'm not sure…perhaps another spirit. You wish to move closer?" He asked uneasily.

Jezreel reached out with her awareness trying to gain an impression of the Fade-shrouded figure. She sensed no evil emanating from it. That was at least a little reassuring, if her senses were not being tricked by the bizarre magic of the Fade.

"Yes, Mouse. How do we get over there? It appears…to be on an adjacent island," Jezreel said, staring at the distant figure in fascination. Mouse drew his eyebrows together and scrunched his nose, obviously not enthusiastic at her request. He shifted from one foot to the other in trepidation.

"We must go through…a, uh…a Fade-portal. You're sure?" Mouse was practically trembling. Jezreel crossed her arms in front of her chest dogmatically and nodded. "It should be close by. It's a portal – but it may not look like a portal – just a wave of shimmering air and slightly off-color...umm…look for a bit of landscape that appears odd or, uh, doesn't seem to fit…" Mouse trailed off as Jezreel could not contain a sincere laugh.

Mouse," Jezreel chuckled, some of the tension subsiding with her mirth, "to my eyes the entire landscape looks odd – nothing here is what it should be!" Mouse blushed.

"I suppose that's true," he flashed a rueful smile; "I will show you what to look for. Come, time is precious."

 

~oOo~

 

“Dear Maker! No wonder the daemons try to possess us," Jezreel exclaimed as she rested her hands upon her knees and attempted to stop her head from spinning. Her innards felt as if they were trying to twist into a haphazard cluster of exceedingly unnatural angles."If I had to travel this way in the waking world, I would be looking to escape too!" Her head buzzed again, but not as loudly, and the pain hadn't been quite as intense as her initial voyage. She had even managed to stay conscious.

Now she understood why Mouse had been so miserable when she had insisted on traveling to this island through the Fade-portal. Well, it was the only way to get there; Mouse had admitted that much to his dismay.

"I'm used to it," Mouse offered weakly, "as much as one can be I guess." Jezreel stood up warily, allowing herself to regain some equilibrium.

"The light is coming from just beyond that rise," she said gazing at the slope less than ten spans in front of them. "Come on, Mouse."

Mouse gulped nervously, but offered no protest. The two climbed the low hill and peeked cautiously over the crest. Jezreel drew a sharp breath, an ethereal figure stood below on a flat plain. He was surrounded by what could narrowly equivocate to a blacksmith's forge in the waking world. Weapons, both strange and familiar, hung suspended in air, as if waiting to be grasped.

She turned her eyes to the Spirit; his entire form, from the intricate helm to the rugged greaves, was enveloped in a bright, white mist. He wielded a glowing spear, executing flawless combat forms. The symmetry and precision of his movements were counterpointed in the ruthless beauty of his weapon. The opaque length of the shaft appeared almost corporeal compared to the diaphanous crystalline of the razor keen point. The weapon, as a whole, seemed to slice the air with a cruel fluidity. Jezreel was struck by the vicious elegance of the spectacle.

"Be wary!" Mouse hissed. "There is little you can trust about this place, least of all its inhabitants."

Jezreel detected an oblique expression as Mouse spoke, which dissipated as promptly as it emerged; a contemptuous half smile – knowing and insidious – some mischievous musing only Mouse was privy to. Jezreel felt a prickle in the back of her mind. There was much more wrong with Mouse than merely having been an unfortunate victim of the Harrowing.

Jezreel was wrenched from her introspection by Mouse tugging at the hem of her Accepted robe. She hadn't even realized she had stood and was now being regarded curiously by the Spirit-being with the spear.

"Well met," she said straightforwardly. "What manner of Spirit are you?"

The Spirit bowed ceremoniously, his astral armor flashing brilliance in the scorched ambiance of the Fade. A low, sonorous voice that seemed to echo across the barren landscape addressed her:

"I am Valor, the warrior spirit. I hone my weapons in hope of the perfect expression of combat. And what title do you claim, Mortal?"

Jezreel took a step forward.

"No!" exclaimed Mouse. Jezreel shot him an annoyed look only to see that he had reverted to his rodent form.

"Fine," he whined petulantly, "but I'm not going near him – he looks dangerous. I'll wait for you on the path." Jezreel waved a dismissive hand and walked easily down the short slope to stand level with Valor.

"I am Jezreel, Accepted mage of the Circle of Magi," it was less of a title and more of a simple admittance.

"Another mortal thrown into the flames and left to burn, I see. Your masters have devised a cowardly test," the Spirit's voice dripped with disdain. "Better you were pitted against each other to prove your mettle with skill than to be sent unarmed against a daemon. Since you are yet here you cannot have defeated your hunter – I wish you a glorious battle to come!" Valor offered a sweeping salute. Jezreel dipped her head politely in acknowledgement but his grandiose endorsement gave her little consolation.

"Valor, is there any help you can afford me?" She passed her hand in a broad arc, encompassing the weapons which dangled pendulously in the air. She could feel them pulsing with magical energy. Valor regarded her solemnly.

"Of course, you are not the first mortal to seek my aid but I am not here to assist you; my purpose is to seek perfection – creating the ultimate weapons for the pursuit of valor," his voice crescendoed imperiously.

"So you forged all of these? And any one of them would be…effective…against a daemon? The staff for instance…" Jezreel asked.

"Without a doubt; in this realm, everything that exists is the expression of a thought. Do you believe these blades be steel, the staves be wood? Do you believe they draw blood? A weapon is a singular need of battle, and by unadulterated will, I make that need a reality," Valor tilted his head, eyeing her appraisingly. "Do you truly desire one of my weapons, mortal?" Jezreel nodded.

Valor paced to and fro several spans before coming back to face her. He rubbed his gauntleted hands together then clapped them as if coming to a decision. The sound was not unlike a muffled peal of thunder. "Very well, mortal, I will give you one my weapons – if you will agree to duel me first. Valor shall test your mettle as it should be tested. We shall battle until I am convinced you are strong enough to defeat your daemon; if you cannot convince me – I will slay you. Are these terms understood?"

"Agreed," said Jezreel and she could sense approval emanating from behind the visor of Valor's helm; he must be smiling. She wondered absently for a moment what this ethereal spirit's features must look like – then abruptly threw herself to the ground and rolled away as Valor's sword blade whistled past her left ear.

Landing quickly on her feet she crouched and shot several quick bolts of energy at the figure now charging her with a primal battle cry. Valor dodged with lissome agility, though one of the bolts struck him in his shoulder plate putting his next swing badly off balance. He grunted as his sword connected with a shield, suspended in air, that Jezreel had hastily pushed into the space she had just vacated. The two continued in a swirling dance of magical energy and ethereal edge for several minutes.

Valor swung again, cutting a rip in the length of her robe. Jezreel's chest pounded and her lungs heaved fire. Valor was able to deflect or dampen every direct attack she tried – even when she connected enough to slow or imbalance him, he quickly recovered and renewed his assault. Dodging yet another fresh onslaught, Jezreel gained some distance and tried desperately to think of an effective tactic. She turned to face Valor as he readied himself for another charge. A slow smile lit her face. Jezreel wove freezing flows of magical cold and flung them – not at Valor directly – but at his blade. The icy energy contacted and froze, followed by a bolt of Arcane energy so powerful, the blade shattered into a glittering cloud. Jezreel stepped back in a defensive stance as Valor stared at the jagged hilt in his hand. The blade was destroyed. He regarded her momentarily then swung the hilt about in an ancient fighting form, the blade regenerating itself like white mist, becoming more substantial with each arc. Jezreel reached out for magic flows, ready to cast again, but Valor held up his hand.

"Enough! Your strength is sufficient to the task – the staff is yours," Valor bowed deeply. The staff materialized in his hand and he tossed it to her. "May you find glory in all your achievements mortal.”

Jezreel straightened and caught the weapon easily; breathless but now grinning broadly. She bowed just as formally: "You honor me, Valor. My gratitude. May you find the perfection you seek."

 

~oOo~

 

Jezreel spun the stave through the air several times, getting a feel for the flows of magic it channeled.

"Mind the head!" Mouse squeaked as Jezreel whirled about at the sound of his approach. The staff, swept high and thrust forward, barely missed his nose. She held it poised for a moment, scarcely an inch from his face, before lowering it and dissipating the energy she had seized. Mouse, in human form once again, cowered from the magical weapon.

"Steady on, Mouse," Jezreel ribbed him in amusement. The butt of the staff tapped the ground and she leaned lightly against the length. "You look like a cat took your tail."

"A great wit this one," Mouse said dryly as he straightened. "I thought it might interest you to know that I found your daemon."

Jezreel stiffened: "How can you be sure?"

"This part of the Fade is… _contained_ ," the word seemed sour in his mouth. "Controlled in a fashion… by the enchanters that opened the portal to send you here. There is a summoning circle on the small island beyond that crest. That is where your daemon will appear. I found it while you were dancing about like a fool with that spirit - never seemed quite equal to his name if you ask me," Mouse muttered dourly, "Anyway, I told you time was precious." He glared at her emphatically.

"Yes…you did," Jezreel said slowly. Something nagged her; how fortuitous that Mouse should make such a discovery so rapidly. Too fortuitous, perhaps.

"Lead on Mouse, it is time we finished this."

 

~oOo~

 

"I think my stomach is trying to lurch up through my throat and throttle my brain," Jezreel said as she straightened. Traveling through the Fade portals was incentive enough not to be trapped in this realm – never mind the prospect of being turned into an Abomination. She recovered herself and strode quickly down the only clear path ahead. Rounding a corner she found herself at the edge of the summoning circle; she could see the flows of magic, oscillating just off the ground that contained it. She lifted a foot to step into the circle.

"Wait!"

She turned and faced Mouse expectantly: "I thank you for your help, Mouse; you don't need to risk yourself further for me."

"I want to," Mouse replied with an obvious effort to make his voice sound brave. "It's too late for me, but you have a chance – a good one – and I'm going to do my best to make sure you don't fail as I did."

"A becoming sentiment," said Jezreel, arching a brow at him. "Are you ready?"

Mouse looked at the broad, flat expanse of the summoning circle and gulped. Twitching his nose twice, he turned his gaze back to Jezreel and bobbed his head violently. Jezreel darted her tongue out to wet her dry lips and then, together, they stepped into the dreaded arena.

 

~oOo~


	3. Mage or Mouse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short chapter, it is an unusual occurrence. - PR

The Rage daemon slithered out of the ground in front of Jezreel with a laugh that could only be described as a sickening hiss. Its scales glowed as red as embers from a forge and burning heat emanated from its entire form. The black, reptilian eyes appraised Jezreel with a humorless smile.

"And so the prey falls in the trap, you've come to me at last!" the daemon spread his taloned hands in an encompassing motion. "Soon mortal, I shall look upon the land of the living with your lifeless eyes! Foolish creature, I shall possess you – body and soul."

The daemon turned and faced Mouse. Mouse cowered, guilt and terror chasing each other across his face. "I suppose you want your reward, little Mouse," the daemon purred with contemptuous mockery, "You have fulfilled your end of our… _arrangement_ …yet again." Jezreel's eyes narrowed at Mouse.

"Arrangement?" she asked, mimicking the daemon's tone. Mouse cringed, his gaze alternating from Jezreel to her adversary.

"No! I'm done! I will not let you hurt anyone else! I don't have to help you anymore!" Mouse cried with a little too much bravado. Jezreel gave him a surreptitious look.

"So now the Mouse is trying to change the rules - but think of the delicious meals we've shared – the tantalizing morsels…" the daemon trailed off with a macabre laugh.

"No! I am no longer a mouse and soon I won't have to hide. It ends this time!" Mouse cried as he shot a weak bolt of lightning at the daemon, hitting it squarely in its mid-section. The daemon roared in astonished rage and clawed at Mouse, missing by a hairsbreadth. With that, Jezreel was in a fight for her life and soul.

Magic and fire, claws and staff, lit the summoning circle with blood and fury. For a time, it seemed the Rage daemon would surely prevail. As Jezreel evaded another sweep of the daemons fiery talons, she was able position herself behind it; it had turned its attention on Mouse momentarily. The First Enchanter's voice echoed in her mind:

_Your will is real…_

 

Marshalling her will, she reached deep within, bending Arcane flows of powerful magic through Valor's staff. Jezreel concentrated, bottling the force of her spell until, finally, she forced the daemon's attention away from Mouse with: "I will not be possessed!"

The daemon rounded as Jezreel unleashed a deadly torrent straight to its core. Taken by surprise, it howled in pain and fury as the crackling burst of energy struck home. Jezreel pulled more intensely, amplifying the power of her attack; then, with a deafening eruption, the daemon disintegrated in a blistering wave of ash and flame – and was gone. Jezreel sank to her knees, drained. Mouse stood gaping at her until she pushed herself to her feet, gulping for air.

"You did it. You actually did it!" Mouse exclaimed. "When I first saw you I had hoped you might be…but – I never really thought any of you would be so powerful!"

Jezreel looked up at him, hands on her knees, panting. She would have leaned on the staff but it had vanished the moment the daemon was conquered – it had served its purpose.

"The others," Jezreel demanded, "the ones you betrayed before me. What were their names?"

Mouse cringed and took a step back: "I don't remember…it was so long ago…I told you I don't even remember my own name. But you! You utterly defeated the daemon; you conquered the darkness of the Fade! So much power" – his eyes glowed covetously – "in time, you will be a master enchanter without equal!"

Mouse's features softened visibly, his tone adopting an entreating quality, "That is something that gives hope to one as small and forgotten as me – that is – if you would want to _help_?" The inquiry hung thick in the air between. Jezreel felt muddled again, as if she were being coerced without any obvious force.

"Don't you want to  _help_?" Mouse's voice echoed seductively in her ears. She couldn't seem to focus. Didn't she want to help him? Poor Mouse, so alone.

"How?" A single syllable was all she could manage as her thoughts disjointed and blurred in her mind.

"There is a way for me to escape this place. A way for me to get a foothold outside…you just need to want to  _let me in_ …" Mouse brushed a strand of hair off her cheek, looking into her eyes with a hypnotic intensity. How had he gotten that close? She didn't remember him moving…he had been at least fifteen paces distance…now he was so close, his words pulsing in her head… _let me in_ … _let me in_ …so pleading… _let me in_ …

"No," Jezreel whispered. She was exhausted and it took all her will to focus on this one word. Something was very wrong and she knew with vague certainty that these thoughts were not her own.

"I can help you," Mouse coaxed. "I can  _protect_  you. The Templars believe all magic is evil, the Fade is evil, that once you have been here you have no choice but to become what they fear." His breath was hot against her ear. "Can't you  _feel_  the sword at your neck?" His finger traced a delicate line across her throat. "Let me  _protect_  you… _let me in_ …"

Her head buzzed, spinning in confusion.  _I must focus_. Putting her hands against Mouse's chest, Jezreel leaned into him. He smiled contemptuously - assuming triumph. Pitting all of her remaining strength into a single movement, she shoved him hard away from her and the magical force sparked from her palms sent him stumbling back in astonishment.

"NO!" she cried adamantly. Exerting her will, Jezreel's head finally cleared and she raised her chin, gazing at Mouse defiantly. "The Rage daemon…it…it wasn't really my test – was it?"

Wrath flashed in Mouse's eyes. He opened his mouth, as if to curse at her angrily, then shut it and smiled; a chilling, humorless contortion that carved his face into sharp angles and wicked teeth. His eyes began slowly bleeding black until it consumed them.

"Maybe they are right about you," his voice distorted into an unnerving daemonic rasp. "Simple killing is easy,  _any_  savage can master it…the  _real_  dangers of the Fade?! Hubris, preconceptions, careless trust, _P...R...I...D...E..._ "

The daemonic voice trailed into tumultuous echoes as Mouse faded and in his place a Pride demon gleamed; a deformed mass of fangs and horns, towering over her.

"Keep your wits about you mage," the daemon hissed. " _Your test has only begun_ …"

A blinding flash of light and an explosion of white-hot pain shredded Jezreel's consciousness before darkness, again, took her.

 

~oOo~


	4. The Test Has Only Begun...

"Wake up, sister. Jezreel, wake up! Please, love."

Jezreel's consciousness came trickling back at the distant beckoning of a familiar voice and a gentle hand stroking her hair. She fluttered her eyelids warily, then squeezed them closed. Even the low-light of the dormitory inflamed the pain running zigzags through her head.

A figure sat on the edge of her bed, hunched over her. Taking several deep breaths, she tried once more as the pain began to fade. She opened her eyes fully to find the distraught face to whom that voice belonged looking down at her intently. It took several moments for her eyes and senses to focus as the throb in her aching skull subsided.

"Jowan? Oh, Jowan!" Jezreel exclaimed, flying straight up and into his arms. Jowan embraced her protectively and heaved an immense sigh of relief.

"Thank the Maker you're all right! I was so worried – I didn't even realize you had been gone all night until they carried you in this morning," Jowan said, pulling back to look into her eyes as he smoothed stray curls off her cheek with his long fingers. His tousled dark hair matched hers. His eyes a deep, pensive blue. He had a tall, lean frame and sturdy build, not unlike that of his younger sibling. Though the two shared only a father, they bore a remarkable resemblance.

"I've known mages that have never returned from their Harrowings – or worse have returned as Tranquil! Why did they force you through it now? It makes no sense. I'm two years your senior. I should have been called for my Harrowing weeks ago, and yet you are whisked away to a secret midnight meeting..."

Jezreel smiled at her elder half-brother's torrent of concern and questions. Pulling her back into a fond embrace, his lips brushed her forehead and she nestled her head snugly into his shoulder.

"Questions for later, love," he whispered, resting his chin on the top of her head. "All that matters is you've come back safely. You gave me quite a scare, little one."

A soft smile ghosted over Jezreel's lips. It was her first clear memory, Jowan calling her by that pet name; even as she grew older she had always found it comforting.

"I could almost believe I dreamt it…it was so surreal," Jezreel mused. "And Cullen…" Her voice trailed as she felt Jowan stiffen at the name.

"The Templar?" Jowan pulled back again to stare intently into her face. "Jezreel – he's infatuated with you – do you understand how dangerous that is? What did he have to do with it?" Jezreel bit her lip. She knew that those who took the Harrowing were forbidden to speak of their experience – but she and Jowan had never kept secrets from each other.

Being found to be sensitive to magic as children, they had been taken and confined to the Circle for training. Living in the isolated tower, for fifteen years, Jowan had been her only family and she had been his. Even though she was the bastard, half-Elven child of his human father by a servant – quite a scandalous affair for which his mother abhorred her bitterly – they had a close bond which had made them nearly inseparable even before their arrival within the tower.

"He was there…with Knight-Commander Greagoir…" Jezreel continued, then hesitated, as Jowan paled visibly. She tried desperately to think of what she could say without speaking of her experience directly.

"They were a…a guard during my Harrowing - it's all right Jowan. I could sense Cullen was…concerned…for me. He wouldn't have harmed me…" she stopped, disturbed by the alarm she saw inundating her brother's eyes.

"But you see I'm fine - all appendages intact!" She added quickly and flashed him a playful grin, attempting to soothe whatever fears were obviously running amuck in his imagination.

"I see," Jowan replied sullenly. "But that doesn't mean I like it."

Jezreel smiled and gave him a quick peck on the cheek: "You worry too much, big brother."

"I will  _always_  worry about you, little one."

 

~oOo~

Jezreel stood before the mirror in the bathe chamber. Having washed and put on her new robes, she already felt more herself and the fear and tension of the previous night was now - almost - a distant remembrance.

She had noticed ever since she woke, that she felt different. Altered. Her senses seemed sharper. She was more aware of the magical energy around her – and within her. Everything felt more tangible – more alive. It was strange and exhilarating – no doubt an effect of the Harrowing - but it had disrupted her usually precise control over her intrinsic abilities like reading emotions. The reactions seemed amplified and she hoped she could adjust to this heightening of her senses quickly.

She regarded her reflection with intense scrutiny, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright. The Mage robes were much more flattering than her Accepted robes to be sure. The Apprentice and Accepted robes were high collared and formless in drab, dark tones of brown and gray while the Mage robes were fitted and fashioned of fine cloth in rich colors. The light gold of the chemise complemented her skin, as did the muted green of the long, heavy over-robe that brushed the floor as she stepped. A dusky copper sash, gathered about her waist and tied, made small swags over her hips; accentuating the natural curves. The finishing touch was a dark, grey-blue, velvet cincher that emphasized her waist and buxom chest.

The sensation of the soft fabric tight against her waist was odd, but that was not quite as uncomfortable as the neckline. It sloped gently from her shoulders in a soft arc across her chest, exposing the graceful lines of her throat and collarbones; not indecent, by any means, but definitely more revealing than she was accustomed to.

Smoothing her rambunctious curls, she carefully tucked her ears beneath her dark tresses. They weren't especially noticeable, she knew, but they still drew the unwanted attention and interest of others. With how starkly fitted the Mage robes were compared to her old ones, she had a feeling that she was already going to be much more… _visible_ …than she was particularly comfortable with. Taking a last critical look, Jezreel sighed at her reflection.

"Well, I suppose there's nothing more to be done with you," she said and stuck her tongue out at her reflection with a wicked grin.

With that, she turned on her heel and headed to the library to face her awaiting "public."

 

                                                                                                                                                           ~oOo~            

 

The excitement and clamor had finally died down. Jezreel suspected that the other students were not as interested in congratulating her as much as they were curious to find out the details of the...unconventional...midnight ritual that was the prattle of the entire tower. They were also discussing the mysterious stranger that had been seen in the company of First Enchanter Irving. Jezreel heaved a sigh of relief as her contemporaries drifted off in their own clusters to continue babbling and gossiping.

Taking the opportunity to slip out of the library and away from the crowd, Jezreel peeked out the door. The corridor appeared deserted. Glancing over her shoulder, she ensured none of her peers had noticed her intent to escape.

She quickly ducked out of the door – and ran straight into a Templar. He caught her about the waist, keeping her from falling over backwards, and her hands instinctively gripped the pauldrons of his armor to steady herself. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"Steady on! Are you quite all right?" the voice was familiar.

"My apologies, I wasn't looking were I was going…I…" Jezreel began flustered, but her voice trailed off as she raised her eyes to see that it was Cullen. His eyes seemed to spark at her with some emotion that was barely harnessed. His face was so close to hers, she could feel his warm breath on her cheek.

For a few interminable moments, they both stood frozen, the tension palpable. Her own breathing quickened and the uncomfortable neckline of her new robes rose and fell with it. She colored violently and averted her eyes from Cullen's intense stare.

Forcing her fingers to loose their hold, her hands slid down the smooth breastplate of his armor and she heard his breath catch, sharp and sudden. She realized that Cullen still had a hold about her waist, his strong hands firmly splayed against her back. The touch sent a shiver down her spine and she felt Cullen's fingers tighten on her through the silky fabric of her new robes. Focusing herself, she ignored the strange, tingling sensations that elicited and regained her composure.

"I can steady myself now," she said with a fragile smile. Cullen continued to stare at her; his hold not wavering.

"I'm quite recovered now. Thank you, Cullen," her voice was more sturdy this time. Cullen finally looked away, appearing to regain his restraint, but it took a visible effort for him to loosen his grip and very slowly remove his hands from her waist.

"If you're sure, of course," Cullen stammered. Letting his arms drop to his sides, he straightened his shoulders, his expression unreadable. The two stood in awkward silence for a few moments before Cullen finally broke it. His voice was strangely soft:

"I'm very relieved that you passed your Harrowing safely. I was chosen. I mean - if you hadn't - I was the one who would have had to…deliver the killing blow." His face twisted with sorrow.

"Thank you, Cullen," Jezreel's tone spoke sympathy more than gratitude. For a moment she felt foolish – a mage comforting a Templar – but empathy gripped her as waves of his inner turmoil crashed against her senses. Her eyes searched his with genuine concern. "I hope it didn't cause you unnecessary distress..."

" _Maker's Breath, it's not fair_ ," Cullen whispered abruptly. His hand trailed up to cup her cheek then stilled at the last moment - hovering just a breath away from touch. The heat of his palm pulsed against her skin.

Jezreel froze, surprised and terrified – Jowan had been right. She had been willfully dismissive of her brother's warnings and now she found herself in a reckless game that was dangerously out of her depth. Jezreel realized that Cullen was leaning perilously close to her and she to him. Her confounded senses were overwhelmed by the surges of emotion that began to flood off of Cullen. Repressed fear, guilt, sorrow, frustration – and deep desire, dominating them all. This unexpected siege had an effect that was vaguely disorienting. A muted sensation eerily reminiscent of the havoc of the Fade.

Time seemed static, interminable as electricity seemed to almost dance between them.

The sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor was a welcome salvation. Cullen's hand dropped, instantly stepping back, and the impassive mask slipped back in place over his troubled features. Jezreel breathed a clandestine sigh of relief as Cullen cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"The First Enchanter sent me for you. You will find him in his study," Cullen turned on his heel, striding quickly down the corridor and out of sight around its curved architecture.

Jezreel sagged against the stone wall, suddenly weak. Her mind felt frayed but her reason was intact and she cursed herself for not heeding Jowan's admonitions about Cullen. Of course, she wasn't about to  _admit_  that he had been right – Jowan was insufferable when he gloated. For a long minute she concentrated on breathing, slow and steady, her fingers wrapped around the sliver pendant that hung from her neck.

She jumped when a hand was placed on her shoulder.

"Maker!" Jowan cried, startled that he had managed to catch his sister unaware. "What in Thedas, Jezreel?! You look as if a will-o-wisp caught your backside!" Jowan laughed enthusiastically at his own joke.

"Your wit and maturity amaze me, brother mine," Jezreel said dryly, then demonstrated her own maturity with an audible snort.

"Come now, love, don't be so cross," Jowan said good-naturedly. His eyes narrowed in suspicion as Jezreel once more leaned against the wall with a haunted expression in her eyes. "Wait - Jezreel you're pale as a ghost! Did something happen? Talk to me, love." He took her by the shoulders, squaring her to face him.

"I'm fine, Jowan. I just had a somewhat…unsettling encounter…but I'm recovered now. Cullen just… _ouch_! Jowan!" Jezreel cried as Jowan's hand clenched painfully on her shoulders. He loosed his grip with a rueful expression and Jezreel glared at him as she rubbed the smarting flesh on her arms.

"I'm fine," Jezreel said sternly. Jowan opened his mouth to argue but thought better and shut it again when her glare intensified. "He told me that First Enchanter Irving has summoned me. Apparently, there is something important he wants to discuss."

"Perhaps, he will finally explain the mystery of last night - of your Harrowing," Jowan mused. "I also have something important to discuss with you."

"Really," Jezreel scoffed, unable to hide the incredulous smile that bubbled up.

"Really, little one," Jowan said. He did not smile. Jezreel stared at him in surprise; gravity was far from Jowan's natural disposition.

"What is it?" Jezreel's voice was saturated with concern.

Jowan took her arm gently and lead her into a large niche carved into the stone wall. He cast furtive glances each way down the corridor, there was no one nearby. Jowan lowered his voice and leaned toward her conspiratorially.

"I'm afraid, Jezreel. I should have taken my Harrowing weeks ago yet I have never been called. Whenever I ask one of the senior enchanters they look uneasy and deflect my questions. Jezreel, I can't explain everything right now, but they are going to force me to take the Rite of Tranquility…"

Icy cold gripped Jezreel's heart. As calm as he appeared on the surface, the fear that radiated off Jowan made her skin crawl and her stomach lurch. She had privately wondered at their procrastination with no small amount of unease.

"Why would you think that?" Jezreel asked, but even she could hear the hollowness in her voice. "With the exception of the most senior enchanters and instructors, all the Circle mages are at Ostagar to help King Cailan with fighting the darkspawn outbreak there. It could be just a delay… "

"No, it isn't and you  _know_  it. You're far more sensitive than I am" -a perplexed expression flitted across his face- "have you not sensed that something is wrong?"

"I…I'm not sure," Jezreel hesitated. He had a valid point and she'd had a nagging sense of apprehension that had grown as the days continued to pass. Could she have missed something?  _No_ ,  _the First Enchanter would prepare me if that were true...or I would, at least, have sensed it in his aura._

"They wouldn't even consider that without an imperative reason and what reason could they have? Jowan – are you hiding something from me?" Jowan had cast his face down and now refused to meet her gaze.

"We've never kept secrets from each other!" Jezreel exclaimed.

"Blood and ashes,  _lower your voice_!" Jowan hissed. "This is not the place to discuss it." He winced at the wounded expression that marred his sister's face and his voice softened. "Love, please understand, the only reason I would keep a secret from you is if it was absolutely necessary." A wistful half-smile tweaked his lips for a moment. Jezreel sensed a wave of love emanate from him but was perplexed to realize she was not its intended recipient.  _Does Jowan have a lover?_  The thought traipsed through her mind.  _And he speaks to me of danger!_

"Tonight, an hour before mid-dark. Meet me in the prayer chapel in the Chantry. I promise I will explain everything then. Please trust me, little one," Jowan's eyes pleaded with her.

"As you say," Jezreel sighed. "I better not keep the First Enchanter waiting."

Jowan watched her walk down the corridor towards the Great Stairs.  _You are the only one we can trust, little one, the only one who can help us._

 

~oOo~

 

"With Wynne, Uldred, and the others at Ostagar, I cannot say I approve of this plan, Irving," Greagoir's displeasure was clear in his tone. "We have already committed enough of our own to this business of Cailan's. I don't see how sending one more will make any difference. It would be putting her in needless danger," Greagoir's voice rose as he spoke and he emphasized the last statement by forcefully striking his gloved fist in the palm of his opposite hand.

"Since when have you felt such empathy for a mage, Greagoir? Or is it simply that you fear letting one so  _exceptionally_  powerful away from the Circle where she would be able to use her Maker-given gifts?" Irving's tone was deceptively jovial, but his well aimed jab struck a raw nerve. He raised a bushy, gray eyebrow in anticipation of his counterpart's response and stole a glance at their audience.

Standing aside from the two men, Revan folded his arms and could not contain a small, wry tweak at the corner of his mouth. He enjoyed it when  _anyone_  could make the Knight-Commander uncomfortable, which was very seldom and rarely ended well. Duncan leaned casually against Irving's desk, watching the power struggle with almost as much amusement as Revan. Despite the entertainment of their exchange, Duncan, was feeling less than diplomatic and simply couldn't fathom Irving's desire to convince the man. Jezreel  _would_  come with him to Ostagar and become a Grey Warden- whether Greagoir was convinced or not. His vantage point of the door caused him to straighten suddenly.

"How dare you –" Greagoir fumed.

His tirade was cut short by an interjected: " _Gentlemen_."

The three men looked expectantly at Duncan and a nod of his head indicated the half open door of Irving's study. Jezreel entered, nodding politely to all four before turning attentively to Irving.

"You asked to see me First Enchanter."

"Ah, child, let me congratulate you! You are now a full mage and a sister within our Circle," Irving spoke warmly, "dismissing" the Knight-Commander with a discrete wave of his hand.

Affronted, Greagoir clicked his tongue in irritation and then spoke pointedly to Irving: "Well, seeing as you are busy, we  _will_  finish our discussion at a later time." With obvious annoyance, he stomped past Jezreel and out the door, flinging it closed with a resounding thud. Jezreel turned quickly, sensing an interested gaze on her.

Duncan had moved to stand parallel with Irving and was now regarding her appraisingly. She hadn't even heard a footstep.  _It was you!_  She thought, remembering the strange impression she had gotten in the Chamber of the Arcane.  _You were the one hidden in shadow._

"Where was I?" mumbled Irving distractedly, noticing the man's sudden appearance at his side. "Ah yes, Jezreel, allow me to introduce Duncan of the Grey Wardens." Duncan bowed politely.

"My pleasure, ser," Jezreel dipped her head, in respectful acknowledgement, but raised a tentative eyebrow at Revan. He merely flashed her a tight-lipped smile so she focused her senses on Duncan and was relieved that she was able to quickly acquire an impression of the enigmatic man.

An unassuming veneer disguised a fierce nature and deadly abilities; a good man, simple, honorable, patient. A good man, yes, but most definitely dangerous. A dull ache began nagging at her temples – triggered by the unsettling aura exuded by the Grey Warden. She pushed the ache aside and turned her attention back to Irving as he spoke.

"I assume you have already, at least, heard of the…conflict…brewing in the South," said Irving and Jezreel nodded. "Duncan is here seeking more recruits to join King Cailan's army at Ostagar."

"Each day the darkspawn menace grows in the south. At this juncture, we must act quickly and decisively," Duncan stated emphatically. "They have formed a horde in the Korcari Wilds and threaten to invade north into the valley. If left unchecked,  _we will face another Blight_ …"

Jezreel's hands flew to her temples as the dull ache crescendoed to a roar. For a split second, a sudden vision flooded her mind – a terrifying creature, deep below the surface, wreathed in ash and breathing flame, shrieking and calling almost as if it was a speaking.

"An Archdemon," Jezreel whispered wide-eyed. She looked Duncan in the eye, a calculating stare. " _You've_  sensed an Archdemon…"

Uncharacteristically caught off guard, Duncan visibly stiffened and his dark, gray eyes widened briefly in alarm. Irving and Revan both looked from the young mage to the Grey Warden in startled disbelief.

"I have no  _direct_  knowledge of that – yet," Duncan had regained his implacable calm but his voice belied an air of uneasy astonishment. "You are remarkably…

_intuitive_ …"

"Come now, Duncan," Revan piped up, attempting to dissipate the tension. "You'll scare the poor girl with this talk of Blights and Archdemons. This should be a happy day! Allow me to add my congratulations. You, once again, have exceeded all expectations and performed admirably, my dear."

"Indeed," Irving's voice was unsettled.

"These are troubled times," Duncan's statement hung in the air.

"All the more reason to celebrate when the opportunity comes," said Irving, deliberately redirecting the conversation. "Jezreel, it is my honor to present you with your staff, hand-carved sylvanwood with an enchantment of frost, and your signet ring bearing the sigil of the Circle. Wear it proudly – you have, indeed, earned this." He placed the ring on the third of her right hand before handing her the staff.

"Your Harrowing was accomplished masterfully and you're phylactery was sent to Denerim this morning," Irving continued. Revan gave her a warm hug: "You are officially a mage within the Circle of Magi, my dear."

"Phylactery?" Duncan interjected skeptically.

"A small amount of blood is taken from each Apprentice upon their admission to the Tower and preserved in special vials," Irving replied impassively.

"The means by which the Templars are able to hunt them down should any turn Apostate, I take it," Duncan commented, revulsion in his voice. "How archaic." From the corner of her eye, Jezreel noticed Revan seeming to nod covertly in agreement.

"We have little choice in the matter," Irving kept his voice measured, though crossed his arms defensively. "Our gifts are viewed with fear and suspicion. As a whole, we Mages were judged and condemned by the evil actions of a few. Therefore, we are forced to prove we can control our magic and use it responsibly."

"As you have done," Revan told Jezreel. "You should rest today and well deserved too. Don't you think, Irving?" His tone was weighted.

"I do," Irving smiled at her. "The day is yours, child."

"Thank you, First Enchanter," Jezreel couldn't help the beaming smile that now lit her often somber face. "Thank you, Master Revan. I am proud to know you regard me so highly." The two senior mages returned her smile enthusiastically, the anxiety of just moments before, temporarily forgotten.

"I think I shall return to my quarters, with your permission, Irving," Duncan's smile was as nonchalant as his bow. "Would you mind escorting me?" His gaze rested on Jezreel.

"Certainly, ser," Jezreel was surprised but not alarmed. "But First Enchanter, I was hoping you would explain what necessitated me taking the Harrowing last night? Before I traveled into the Fade, you mentioned the 'coming hardship' - what did you mean?"

"Take the day to rest and celebrate, child. We will discuss  _that_  matter in the morning." She noted that Irving looked, not at her but Duncan as he spoke, and covert warning laced his words. Duncan glanced meaningfully at Jezreel then nodded in recalcitrant acquiescence.

"Until the morning, then."

 

~oOo~

 

Jezreel glanced sidelong at Duncan again as they traversed the corridors leading to the guest quarters. The silence was awkward and she sensed, rather than saw, his eyes surreptitiously evaluating her every move. When they finally arrived at the door of Duncan's quarters, he turned and bowed.

"My gratitude, young mage," he spoke cordially but his voice held a hint of strain. Jezreel nodded. Duncan's mouth opened and closed once; the muscles working in his jaw.  _Indecision_. Clearly there was something he wanted to say - but wouldn't. Smiling tightly, Duncan finally turned and passed through the doorway.

Jezreel stood for a moment, considering, then followed him and closed the door behind her loudly. Duncan whirled about, his hand instinctively moving towards the hilt of his dagger, before stilling in surprise. He leveled his gaze at Jezreel with intense curiosity – her action was brazen. Jezreel's mouth went dry and she licked her lips, praying she had not made a very grievous error, then spoke:

"It was you in the shadows - wasn't it?"

She was shocked at the steady quality of her own voice, almost as if it were someone else speaking. Duncan tilted his head, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. He nodded.

"You are not here simply to find 'recruits' - you're here to find  _a recruit_."

During their conversation in the First Enchanter's office, and the exchange she had accidentally overheard between Irving and Greagoir, a vague theme had revealed itself. She did not yet understand why but there was one thing she was now certain of:

 

 "You're here for _me_."

 

Duncan did his best to remain stoic, his teeth gritted, conflict raging behind his eyes. He knew that Irving would be irate if he revealed anything in lieu of the First Enchanter's presence and express approval; but the girl was here now and already suspected the truth. Hesitantly, he nodded again.

" _Why_?" the question hung heavy between them for several moments.

Duncan sighed and swept his hand toward a chair, motioning her to sit. Jezreel complied and Duncan moved to the fireplace in front of her, leaning his shoulder against the stone mantle. He regarded Jezreel critically then stared into the flames as he spoke:

"Because, Irving claims you are the most powerful mage he has ever encountered. Because, he is sure you are… _fated_. He never spoke to you of this?" Duncan asked as Jezreel's brow furrowed in skeptical inquiry.

"He did not."

"Fated are rare individuals. Some say they are… _touched_ …by the Maker at

birth – the last remnants of hope bestowed upon the world he has abandoned. They tend to have extraordinary power, abilities, or character. Many of the great heroes of Thedas' history were believed to be fated by the Ancients. They have been mages, warriors, artisans, peasants, and kings and history seems to bend around them – to shape to their will. They also tend to draw other… _strong_ …personalities into their inner circle…" Duncan trailed off, muttering to himself; his thoughts seeming to filter out without his awareness. "To find one in many generations is exceedingly rare, to find  _two in the same generation_ …" He shook his head, remembering himself, and continued: "The discovery of a fated is often a herald of an imminent catastrophic struggle or evil that they are paramount to overcoming.  _That is 'why' -_ the reason that I left Ostagar at such a critical juncture. To observe you for myself. I believe Irving is correct in his conclusion."

Jezreel sat utterly stunned. She _knew_  she was gifted, but this was all too fantastic, she had no grand illusions that she was some "hero" destined to save the world. She barely even  _remembered_  the world that existed outside the Circle Tower!

She looked at Duncan uncertainly: "So, how do I fit into your plan?"

"I must ask you to give up your life here in the Circle, to come with me to Ostagar and join the Grey Wardens," Duncan's voice was heavy. "I know it is not an easy thing I ask and your life will be altered forever. This will be an immense burden you will undertake."

Jezreel stood and distractedly paced back and forth with her lips pursed sourly. Duncan was sincere - and he was  _certain -_  she didn't even need to read him to know that, but it grated on her that his choice of words had made it sound like a request. His tone, by contrast, had implicitly impressed upon her that it was a…command? No…not a command. An imperative. An  _inevitability_  with no choice and no escape. She shook her head furiously as she paced, her thoughts scrambling about trying to find order. She stopped abruptly, a tiny flicker of hope had sparked in her mind.

"My brother, Jowan. Would you allow him to come with me?" she asked and Duncan shook his head regretfully.

"I assumed that would be a concern but Irving will not give permission for him to leave and, unfortunately, I have no claim on him; no right to remove him from the Circle. Joining the Grey Wardens is not an escape from the Tower. I fear his fate follows a different path," a troubled look clouded Duncan's eyes and Jezreel instinctively reached out her senses to read its source. One word:  _Tranquil_.

Her eyes widened as tears began to prick her eyelids; hands unconsciously clenched into tight fists and she sighed. She bowed her head and squeezed her eyes tight closed in an attempt to restrain the emotions that threatened to spill through them. Her tremulous whisper was barely audible: "Will our lives never be our own?"

Duncan's brows furrowed sympathetically and the veteran warrior moved to pat the young mage's shoulder in an awkward, though heartfelt, gesture. "I'm sorry, Jezreel."

Jezreel clutched the talisman hanging from her neck and used it as an anchor to center herself. Slowly, she regained a semblance of composure. She took several deep breaths and then her crystalline eyes resolutely met Duncan's gray gaze.

"I must consider what you have told me. I will give you my answer in the morning."

 

~oOo~


	5. A Mid-Dark Meeting

Jezreel padded silently down the shadowy corridor toward the Chantry Temple. Entering the sanctuary, the vaulted ceilings seemed to disappear into blackness above her. The impossibly large, bronzed figure of Andraste stood on a dais at the far end of the sanctuary, behind the Chanters pulpit. The flickering candlelight played across the face, making it look almost alive.

Glancing about, it was quickly apparent that she was alone.  _Thank the Maker_. Jezreel breathed deeply; glad she had decided to remove her cincher. It was much more comfortable with just the sash and she wasn't worried about breaching etiquette at this time of night.

She was purposefully early by more than a full hour. Scared and unsure of what the future might hold, of the hard decision she must make. She needed some time alone to think and meditate; seeking comfort, guidance.

Slipping through a side door at the back of the extensive stone chamber, Jezreel found herself in the small prayer chapel, flanked by spires of candles built into the stone on either side of the small cloister. Leaving the door propped open a little for when Jowan arrived, she took a steady breath.

Using the energy to feed the magic flows, Jezreel wove wisps of fire between her fingertips, feeling the heat build. Sweeping her hands and releasing the tiny sparks that licked the tips of her fingers, she watched with a sense of delight as the flames found their marks and spread until she was surrounded by a dim sea of flickering glow.

She stepped several quick paces to the far end of the tiny chapel and knelt before the diminutive effigy of the Maker, carved into a niche in the stone wall. Clasping her hands, she rested her elbows on the large, smooth stone slab that served as a sort of altar. The back of the altar had a frame of worked, iron filigree which slanted and rose to a point in the middle directly below the Maker's likeness – like a guiding arrow.

Bowing her head, she offered up pleas for guidance: _Maker, give me strength. I don't know what to do. Should I accept Duncan's offer? Am I truly what he says – can I help fight the darkspawn? Andraste, preserve me – I cannot leave Jowan to be made Tranquil. I cannot!_

Her mind a sea of disquiet, she began reciting a passage from the Chant of Transfiguration that had often comforted her when when she was troubled:

"Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's light, and nothing that he has wrought shall be lost…"

Her voiced trailed into silence, sensing a presence before she even heard the footsteps approaching the door of the chapel. She straightened and turned as a man's form filled the doorway, features obscured by shadow. Jezreel drew a sharp breath; she didn't need light to recognize the figure that stepped into the small chamber, the door swinging closed behind him with a soft groan.

"You," he breathed. "I knew that was your voice."

"Cullen," Jezreel exclaimed, feeling rather like a child caught stealing a cookie. "I didn't expect to see anyone at this time of night."

"I was walking back to my quarters when I saw the light and came to investigate," Cullen replied mechanically, his voice low. An alarming sensation replaced her previous sheepish feeling. The sensation that he was stalking her like a predator. It was overpowering and made her skin crawl.

He took a few steps closer; his brown eyes seemed to devour every detail of her. The soft candlelight cast a radiant glow off her smooth skin, the shadows accentuating the neckline and clinging fabric of her Mages robes; her eyes sparkling like prisms in the flickering light of dozens of tiny flames. Jezreel moved slowly to the right side of the Chapel attempting to gain a clear path around him toward the doorway. He stood as if transfixed, now directly opposite her on the other side of the compact chamber.

"Do you realize how beautiful you are?"

Jezreel's breathing quickened, terrified excitement beginning to well up once again. She cast her eyes down, her face coloring violently.

"I, um…thank you, Cullen, but I…" she trailed off as she felt familiar waves of energy radiating from him again. She raised her eyes and Cullen stared into them with an intensity that unsettled her.

"I've…admired you for so long. So beautiful. So quiet and sympathetic. So –  _dangerous_ ," his voice dropped, permeated with veiled menace. Jezreel narrowed her eyes. Something in his tone had changed…his willpower was crumbling.

"It isn't fair, you know," Cullen said, bitterness tinting his voice. "I am a Templar, sworn to protect the Chantry and enforce its laws – sworn to hunt and control mages – and yet I cannot control myself! I cannot stop myself from wanting you…from… _loving you_  – how have you bewitched me?!" The muscles of his jaw contracted, set hard as stone.

"Oh, Cullen, think about what you're saying, it's forbidden…the Circle, the Chantry…it's impossible.  _Please_  don't be foolish!" Jezreel implored. "You have always treated me kindly, but  _I don't love you_. I never have, I never can - you're a _Templar!_ "

The fear in her voice was equaled only by the sorrow she felt at Cullen's suffering. She despised being the source of another's pain, regardless of the reason. He was handsome, admittedly, but she had never allowed herself to dream of falling in love with…well,  _anyone_. It was simply too dangerous. A lesson she and Jowan had learned early and well, was that the Chantry could use such a bond to destroy lives if they decided it was righteously necessary – or that they could benefit from it.

Cullen's face twisted with longing and frustration as his fists clenched and unclenched furiously. His chest heaved remembering her scent, the soft feel of her within his arms.  _Maker, I can't help myself..._

"No!" Cullen exclaimed. "I must not allow my passion to rule me! I cannot allow you to hold such power over me!" – his voice broke – "but how can I fight it when your very existence haunts me!" A single tear trailed down his cheek as pain scarred his eyes. He raked his calloused hands through his red-blond locks in vexation. The wave of anguish that swept over Jezreel wrenched her heart with pity.

“Cullen, I…I’m so sorr-“ she began.

“No!” Cullen growled. “I don’t want your pity! Do you think I’m in love with you because I _want_ to be?” His voice rose stridently, forcing him to draw a shuddering breath before continuing through clenched teeth: “You are in my veins, like a poison…corroding, corrupting…I pray the Maker, day and night, for a cure just to rid myself of it…” He almost spat the words at her.

It was ironic, she realized: the Templars were imprisoned just as much as the mages. Victims of a tyrannical order and rigid code that did not allow for love or even simple happiness. Forcibly denying such an integral aspect of their humanity could certainly push any of them to despair or madness.

Sorrow filled her eyes as she took a timid step toward him. Her right hand outstretched, she hesitated before gently placing it on his cheek; a soothing gesture. Cullen shivered at her caress, leaning his face into her hand. His eyes slipped closed as a soft, guttural sound escaped his lips. For a long while, they stood together, motionless and silent. The tension finally seemed to drain from Cullen as his frame sagged wearily. Jezreel let her hand fall, feeling the danger of their confrontation had passed. Cullen's head bowed and he clasped his hands to the back of his neck, his lips a tight line and his eyes pressed shut. Jezreel spoke quietly:

"Duncan has asked me to join the Grey Wardens and" – she realized – "I am going to accept. I will leave on the morrow and cause you no further distress. I'm sorry to see you like this…I have always thought well of you."

Jezreel regarded him regretfully, then turned away with a resigned sigh.  _There's nothing more I can do to console him. I hate feeling so helpless..._

Suddenly, Cullen grabbed her wrist – his grip like a vice – and pulled her into him. His arms encircled her tightly and he pressed his lips to hers in a rough kiss. Jezreel gasped and instinctively reached for magic flows. Casting against a Templar was a mortal offense but the fear that Cullen had taken full leave of his senses shrieked in her mind.

Her palms flat against his chest, Cullen felt them begin to vibrate with magical energy and abruptly broke the kiss. Pulling himself back, he grasped both her hands firmly in his. Templars' effectiveness and very purpose rested on their ability to dispel magic - and weaken the mages who wielded it. Clutching her hands against his heart, he blocked, then dissipated the flows and leaned his brow tenuously against hers. Kissing her was an unthinkable transgression and, as the force of his sanity returned, the trickle of impiety in his mind became a deluge of blasphemy that jarred him to his core.

"Forgive me, please _, forgive me_ ," he whispered, breathless. "I wish to never see you again…but, Maker's Breath, I also wish that you should never leave my sight! My reason cannot resolve such a discord and it unbalances my soul."

His eyes found hers as he spoke and pleaded for an answer. Tears slipped down her cheeks and she shook her head. She had no answer to soothe his fragmented mind. Cullen swallowed hard and drew her closer. He brushed his lips against her forehead then pressed them to each of her cheeks; kissing away the tears. His lips hovered once more above hers before Jezreel whispered, earnestly:

"Please, you...you should leave."

Cullen stepped back but did not turn to go and she watched his movements warily. He reached up, fumbling with something on a string about his neck. Grasping it with one hand, he gave a sharp tug. The string snapped, falling insignificantly to the stone floor.

Once again, he reached for her and his large, calloused fingers enveloped her soft hands – pressing something into her palm. Deep, amber eyes locked to her gaze before allowing her fingers to slip gently from his. She opened her hand and stared at the token in her palm. It was a small pendant. A glistening moonstone with delicate filigree etched about its silver mounting. It was beautiful.  _How long had he carried it for her?_

"Cullen, I can't…"

He shook his head, cutting her off with a single, pleading syllable: " _Please_."

A moment later she nodded and removed the leather cord from around her neck to string it beside the talisman that she had worn since her first day in the tower. 

_That_  medallion had once been a silver teardrop with an obscure holy symbol – a triquetra– carved deeply onto the smooth face. Now, magically split down its length,  _she_  always wore one half.  _Jowan_  always wore its twin.

Cullen lifted the ends of the cord out of her fingers and reverently fastened it around her neck. His fingers lightly brushed the pendant as it rested on her breast, then lowered to his side. The color in her eyes shifted and sparked, searching his face.  _What would it be like to love someone that much?_  Her thoughts wandered through the myriad of possibilities before settling on an uneasy answer:  _Painful_.

For some overpowering reason she couldn't begin to comprehend, Jezreel placed a gentle hand over Cullen's heart – letting calm, healing energy flow through her palm - and then,  _she kissed him_. Barely a ghosting of her lips, brushed tenderly against his, as she whispered, " _I will always remember your kindness._ "

Cullen's eyes closed and he inhaled deeply, savoring her touch, before turning away and walking dejectedly to the door. Upon reaching the threshold, he paused, turning his head to speak over his shoulder. Jezreel barely heard his whisper: "I pray the Maker guide you, Jezreel. Pray that he is merciful enough to  _let me forget you_."

The door closed as her tears fell unchecked.

 

~oOo~

 

Jowan peeked nervously into the chapel, eyes adjusting to the dimness. Jezreel knelt motionless at the altar, she spoke softly, without so much as stirring a hair: "It's all right, Jowan, I'm alone."

Jowan startled at her quiet voice and shook his head; sometimes his sister's keen intuition still caught him off guard. She stood and turned as he walked the short span of the chapel to embrace her. Seeing her tear-stained cheeks, Jowan's brows shot up and his heart skipped in alarm.

He grasped her wrist to pull her face into the light and she winced -  _noticeably_. Hastily examining her wrist, the color drained from his face as he saw the enraged bruises that had already formed – bruises from a man's fingers. Ire rose in his throat like bile and he bit his lower lip hard enough to draw small pricks of blood; his imagination wildly conjuring all manner of unseemly reasons for those marks. His frame almost vibrated with fear and fury, but his tone was disturbingly self-possessed.

"Who did this? Jezreel - answer me!" His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Jezreel? Was it Cullen?"

She dipped her head, stress and nerves rendering her speechless.

"Oh, my little one," Jowan whispered at the sadness in her eyes and enveloped her protectively in his arms. Safe within Jowan's comforting embrace, Jezreel buried her face against his chest. He felt hot tears soaking into his shoulder as shudders shook her whole body. He stood for a long while with his arms encircling her, his cheek resting against her curls, swaying gently, soothingly. After a few minutes, the tears subsided, her breaths came naturally once more, and her apprehensive mind and body relaxed - for a moment.

Jowan took her chin gently between his thumb and crooked finger and raised her face to his – his gaze dark.  _Oh, no. He's imagining the worst – explain to him!_  A voice cried deep in her mind.

"Jowan, it's not what you think-" she began, almost tripping over the words in her haste to get them out.

"Did he violate you?" Jowan growled.

"NO! I just said - it's  _NOT_  what you think. He…He just kissed me but-" Jezreel rubbed her temples trying frantically to think of how to convey the…finality…of their encounter and calm Jowan down, not send him into even more of a rage. Best not to mention the pendant – or that she had kissed him as well. Jowan stepped away from her, crossing his arms and she heard his teeth click in agitation.

" _Just_  kissed you? _Just_?!" Jowan exclaimed, incredulous. "Sister, he disregarded his training, his vows, his very nature! Disregarded the fact that he is a Templar and you a Mage - but he  _just_  kissed you!"

Jezreel noticed that he absently worried the talisman - the mirror image of hers - that hung about his neck with unsteady fingers. It was a gesture made unconsciously when attempting to calm or focus - an instinctive mannerism that the siblings shared.

"I started drawing energy to cast and he stopped. He dispelled the magic and came back to his senses," Jezreel offered in an attempt to placate him. Jowan's glower intensified exponentially. This was not going well.

"He didn't threaten me, brother, and he didn't harm me. The bruises, well, that was...unintentional," she sighed, deciding to persevere. After all, it couldn't make things any worse, could it?

"I…I felt sorry for him. There was so much sadness - so much pain in his eyes," Jezreel could see that hollow look in her mind's eye as clearly as if Cullen were still standing there. "The Templar's are just as much prisoners as we are, Jowan."

"You felt sorry?" Jowan's voice rose in disbelief. "Andraste's blessed, bloody ashes! That is  _irrelevant_ , Jezreel. You don't seem to understand how this changes things – how much more dangerous this has become…he not only had forbidden impulses but he  _acted_  on them!" Jowan's hands now gripped her shoulders and his eyes searched hers frantically for comprehension.

"I was right…he is obsessed with you and if you remain within the Circle it will only escalate. But your phylactery is already in Denerim…they could track us…" – Jezreel eyed him in confusion, what did he mean? – "It doesn't matter. I have to protect you…" His voice trailed off and a chilling aura radiated from him. He was unbalanced and her mind recoiled in fear. If Jowan did something… _foolish_ …the Templars would kill him and it would be her fault. If she had listened to her brother, she thought, she could have prevented this entire situation from ever happening. She shuddered and took his face in her hands: "Stop this, Jowan!”

Jowan gazed at his sister in seething silence. The void in his eyes was as unnerving as the cool dissolution that had just saturated his voice and it pierced her heart. Forcing him to meet her gaze, she exerted all her willpower for him to focus on her words.

"This is not as simple as you think. There are _much greater forces_  at play now and I will explain everything, but only if you promise to let this go. Please, Jowan, you mustn’t do anything foolish!"

"Whatever could you be thinking, little one? Of course, I must protect you…brother will always protect you…" Jowan smiled at her in detached patronization, ignoring her demand. He was  _reacting_  emotionally and not  _thinking_ logically – overprotective to a fault. She had to convince him to see reason. Her life was, already, becoming far too complicated without Jowan flying off the metaphorical handle.

"If you love me, then promise me you will not confront Cullen – your word," Jezreel entreated.

The smile was lost from Jowan's lips and he glowered at Jezreel in irritation but she felt the panic that had gripped him weaken substantially. It was working.

"I love you, Jowan, and I will not allow you to foolishly risk yourself over some brash, addle-brained notion of defending me! All you will accomplish is getting yourself killed."

Jowan stood back, tipping his head against the stone, and drew a deep breath. He absently studied a crack in the wall and then exhaled slowly, his cheeks puffing out as he released the air from his lungs in consternation. Jezreel rested her hands on her hips, watching him intently. His gaze trailed back to hers.

"You frustrate me, little one. By the soul of the Maker, you cannot understand how maddening a position you put me in – I would _die_  before I would let any harm come to you…" He shook his head furiously then let it bow still. "Very well, little one, but know that there is  _nothing_  I will not do to protect you –  _whoever_  presents the threat," he added the caveat quickly when her brows furrowed. Quiet concern had now eclipsed the malevolence in his eyes and Jezreel felt herself relax considerably.

"I suppose...I may tend to overreact," he admitted. "But is against my nature to forgive insult or injury where you are concerned. Can you understand that?" Jowan's gaze softened and an apologetic half-smile lit his face.

"Yes, brother," Jezreel sighed in relief. Hot-headed and misguided as his chivalry may be, it was solely out of love for her. She hugged him tightly.

"Let me see, little one," Jowan said, retreating from her embrace and indicating her injured wrist. As he examined the offending blotches on her skin, from the door of the chapel, a soft voice called out: "Jowan!"

A petite, pretty girl approached cautiously from the shadows. Strawberry-blonde hair caught the candlelight in a halo about her round face. For a moment, Jowan's heart swelled at the beautiful image of her face framed in soft wisps. Her green eyes flared in surprise and fear when she saw Jezreel's tearstained face and the enraged marks on the wrist which Jowan held in his hands.

"Maker's Breath, what happened?!"

"I'll explain shortly, Lily, watch the door," he whispered and she complied hastily. His mouth a grim line, Jowan circled his hands around her wrist and channeled white energy - working a weak healing spell. Jezreel shut her eyes, absorbing the warmth, as the white glow hummed across her skin. When it subsided, Jowan cupped her cheeks gently in his hands searching her face earnestly; as if to assure himself that she was all right. Jezreel grasped his hands and gently lowered them.

"I'm fine, Jowan. Please don't fuss," Jezreel said quietly.

"Jowan, will you please tell me what's happened? This is frightening me," Lily's voice was low and worried as she left the door and approached the siblings. He drew a deep breath, and turned to look at her as he spoke.

"Lily this is Jezreel, my little sister. That Templar, Cullen…" Jowan's features hardened momentarily, suppressing the indignation that began boiling up again. "He is obsessed with her, dangerously so. He grabbed her and kissed. She had to draw energy to cast before he stopped…"

Lily gasped, her hand flying to her mouth: "You poor dear! How frightening! You must inform the First Enchanter…or the Knight-Commander…mustn’t they do something?"

"No!" Jowan hissed. "It would be the word of a mage against a Templar. I already agreed, for Jezreel's sake, that I would not press the issue – but if she is threatened again, I will ensure that she is not harmed…" His eyes darkened menacingly. Jezreel squeezed his hand, bringing him out of his sinister reverie and back to the moment.

“Jezreel," he hesitated and she nodded encouragingly, "this is Lily – my fiancée…"

For the first time, Jezreel focused her attention on the pretty girl hovering over Jowan's shoulder and, noticing her attire, her eyes flared in shock – she wore the robes of a Chantry Acolyte.

"Your fiancée?" Jezreel breathed. "What in the Maker's Name do you plan to do, Jowan? She's an Initiate! Even if love weren't dangerous enough, the Chantry would never permit an Acolyte to marry a mage – you know this!" Lily visibly recoiled at Jezreel's exclamation.

"I'm sorry, Lily," she said, calming her voice. "Please understand, I don't mean to sound harsh but it is just as forbidden as a mage marrying a Templar!"

"That's true," Lily said quietly. "That is why you must agree to help us, I know Jowan loves and trusts you but I want your word – as a woman – that you will not betray us. Give me that assurance and we will tell you what we plan." Jezreel stared at the girl for several long moments then turned her gaze upon her brother.

"You love her?"

Jowan nodded emphatically, his voice husky: "With all my heart, little one."

"And you are ready to accept the consequences – escape and become fugitives – to marry her? Succeed or fail… whatever the cost?"

Jowan's blue eyes glistened and he swallowed hard. Without breaking her gaze, he affirmed: "Whatever the cost."

An unexpected feeling of relief washed over Jezreel.

"The Maker has a strange sense of humor," she mused quietly as she shook her head. Jowan and Lily exchanged puzzled glances and the expression did not go unnoticed. She sighed: "I suppose I should explain."

Jezreel quickly acquainted Jowan and Lily with the entire events of the last day; from her Harrowing to the meeting in Irving's office, being introduced to Duncan, the conversation in his quarters, and her decision to join the Grey Wardens. Jowan and Lily listened, in stunned silence, dumbfounded.

"So now you know the whole of it – except…" Jezreel hesitated, biting her lip.

"Except?" Jowan asked.

"When I asked Duncan if you would be allowed to join the Wardens with me, he told me that your path was different and…I had an impression…a strong one."

"An impression of what?" Jowan's voice was almost a whisper and Jezreel could feel the dread emanate from him.

" _Tranquil._ "

"It's true. They are going to make me Tranquil, take away everything I am – everything! Joy, sorrow, grief, anger, love – all will be stripped away and leave me nothing but an empty husk! One of the living dead..." Terror and anger frayed Jowan's voice. He and Lily traded knowing looks as he raked his fingers through his dark hair; his nerves frazzled. Jezreel looked at Lily pointedly.

"You knew," she stated.

"I found the order on the Revered Mothers desk. Greagoir had signed it…and so had the First Enchanter," Lily spoke slowly, purposefully and Jezreel felt the horrific sting of betrayal pierce her. Irving had condemned Jowan to a fate worse than death.

"The First Enchanter! How could he...how could he smile and congratulate me and all the while he…" Jezreel's voice trembled. "He knew and I didn't sense anything."

"Love and regard can cloud your ability to read auras and gain impressions, little one," Jowan said softly. "When your emotions are so tightly tied to your subject, you seem unable to sense that which they wish to hide. Your own feelings somehow manage to block them. How else do you think I kept Lily secret from you?" Jezreel sat silent, pondering Jowan's observation. She nodded, surprised at his insight, he was correct yet again. Her thoughts circled back to the situation at hand.

"Why, Jowan?! By what reason could they possibly justify forcing the Rite of Tranquility on you?" Jezreel gave him a hard look. "The truth – it cannot simply be because of a forbidden romance."

"There is a rumor, little one, that some in the Tower have been experimenting with  _Blood Magic_ …and I am suspected."

Jezreel's jaw dropped open for a moment before snapping shut hard enough to make her teeth click. _Blood Magic_ \- using pure life-force to fuel magic that was infinitely more potent than any normal casting. It was violent, powerful, seductive, and forbidden. Casting such concentrated magic could penetrate the Veil making the mage recklessly conspicuous and vulnerable to the daemons of the Fade. Centuries ago, the Blood Mages of the Tevinter Imperium had brought the whole of Thedas to near annihilation in pursuit of ultimate power.

"Is it true?" she asked sharply. Jowan gave her a wounded look and she returned a hard stare: "It is a fair question, Jowan."

"I found some old tomes and read them – out of curiosity – but I would never use Blood Magic unless I truly had no other choice," he replied earnestly.

Jezreel regarded him soberly, considering, and then nodded slowly: "As would I. Very well, so how are a mage and an acolyte to escape the Tower of Magi?"

Lily cleared her throat and looked at Jezreel expectantly.

"You have my word, Lily," Jezreel regarded her seriously and with more than a little annoyance. Lily nodded, satisfied. Jezreel straightened and smoothed her robes then tightened her sash. She eyed her brother and his lover resolutely: "Now, tell me this plan."

 

~oOo~

 

Jezreel peeked surreptitiously into the center hall where the stock room was located. Owain, the Tranquil stock-keeper, sat emotionless at his post by the arched entry. "Are you sure this is going to work?" Jezreel hissed at her companions who were nearly crouching in the shadows. "I don't think Owain is going to simply give me a Rod of Fire…"

"You're a full mage now," Lily whispered. "He certainly won't give it to me – or Jowan – Owain would probably go straight to First Enchanter if Jowan even came near the stockroom. Just act confident and show him the requisition form – I  _guarantee_  he won't be able to tell the First Enchanters signature isn't genuine."

Jezreel took a deep breath and and nodded. Walking casually up to Owain, she smiled courteously. The gesture was lost on him and he looked at her complacently, his eyes vacant and apathetic. She handed him the requisition.

"You need a Rod of Fire," his slow, monotone voice was flat and utterly emotionless. It was so unnatural, so... _inhuman_...it made the back of her neck prickle with abhorrence.

"Yes, Owain, thank you."

"It is strange that you should be here at this hour," he stated mechanically.

"I couldn't sleep," she smiled again. "I thought that as long as I was awake I might as well make use of my time and work. I'll wait here – thank you, Owain."

She tried to sound confident and nonchalant, waving a hand indifferently at the door to the stock room as she said his name. Owain stared at her impassively for a few moments before shrugging and going about the task of filling the requisition.

Jezreel breathed a deep sigh of relief when, after a few minutes, Owain returned with the requested item and handed it to her. She nodded with a pleasant "Good night, Owain," before turning on her heel and walking briskly out into the corridor where Jowan and Lily were waiting.

 

~oOo~

 

Lily led them silently along the corridors until they reached an ancient stone staircase shrouded in shadow. Down the thirty smooth steps to a small dark door as ancient as the staircase. Jowan grasped the rusty handle and pulled gently – it didn't budge. He gave Lily an inquiring look and she motioned at him to pull harder. Gripping the handle, Jowan jerked back violently.

The door gave way with a strident groan and Jowan nearly tumbled head over heel in surprise. The three hurried through the ominous portal and pulled it shut behind them. All three cringed in unison as the door protested - the sound seemed deafening in the quiet of the night. For a full minute, they stood in complete darkness - filled with silent anxiety, hardly daring to breathe – listening. Finally, with no sound of suspicion or pursuit, Lily broke the silence.

"Over here!"

Jezreel and Jowan followed Lily down a shadowed corridor which terminated in a massive wooden door that pulsed with strong magic. For a moment, the three stood in awe of the primitive, yet menacing, architecture and Jezreel was glad she had retrieved her staff which now rested in its clutch on her back – just in case, of course. Once again, it was Lily who broke the silence; her voice a reverent whisper.

"It's called the 'Victims Door.' It is made from two-hundred and seventy-seven individual planks – one for each of the first Knights of the Templar Order. It is meant as a reminder of the danger all those cursed with magic pose."

"Where did you learn this?" Jezreel asked examining the door from a cautious distance.

"All initiates are required to study the full history of the Circle and the Tower itself before they are allowed to work with Mages and Templars," Lily replied quietly.

Jezreel moved closer, her gaze intent: "There's no lock? No handle…sealed by magic then?" She looked at Lily inquiringly, who nodded.

"The door is controlled by voice and magic. The Chantry provides the passphrase which primes the ward and then a Mage touches the door with mana to release it– only then does it open."

"Then what was the purpose of obtaining a rod of fire?" Jezreel queried.

"That is for the inner door to the Repository – the Vault where the phylacteries are kept. It has but an iron lock. Easily managed with the rod," said Lily.

"An iron lock? With a physical key?" asked Jezreel puzzled. "That seems…strangely simple."

"Yes, and lucky for us, I overheard the Knight Commander telling his Captain the passphrase for this door," she smiled with no small amount of self-satisfaction.

"I don't want to give the wrong impression, brother, but if Lily has the passphrase then why exactly do you need my help? Why can't you open it?"

"It will only respond to the magical energy, the mana, of a full mage; one who has entered the Fade and completed the Harrowing," compunction tinged Jowan's voice. "I'm sorry, little one; there is no other we could trust."

"You have always looked after me, brother," Jezreel gave him a forgiving smile. "Perhaps, I can take care of you for a change. Lily, must I cast a specific spell?"

"No," the girl replied, "any spell will be sufficient."

Jezreel gave her a nod and Lily turned to face the door her hand outstretched:

 

"Sword of the Maker, Tears of the Fade."

 

The door emitted a soft hissing sound and began to shimmer faintly at the priming of the magical ward. Jezreel brought her hands together in front of her chest, then swept them down, out, and over her head in a large arc before bringing them back to center and pushing them forward as she stepped into the casting, her aim precise. An electric bolt struck the door, sending small white sparks trailing around the casement; slowly the door swung open of its own accord. The three passed through the massive portal and hurried down the dimly lit corridor toward their goal.

 

~oOo~


	6. Out of the Frying Pan...

"Hurry," Lily hissed, "this way!"

The hallway cut sharply right, and then left, before they reached a small ante-chamber with two doors at a right angle to each other. One small and plain with merely a handle; the other, much larger with a solid stone casement and a heavy iron mechanism securing it shut. Jezreel pulled the Rod of Fire from the pocket of her robes and raised it level with the lock. Suddenly she paused, her eyes lingering on the stone casement.

"The lock!" Jowan whispered, his voice insistent. "Use the rod!"

"No…" Jezreel's voice trailed as the rod in her hand drifted downward absently.

"What?!" exclaimed Lily angrily. "What do you mean 'no'?! Just use the rod on the lock!"

"It obviously won't work, Lily," Jezreel replied in exasperation. "Just look at the wards! They must have been placed there to negate magic." She regarded the shimmering white hieroglyphs that marked the door itself and surrounded the stone casement – even the slab floor bore the inscriptions – and clicked her tongue in irritation.

 Jowan and Lily exchanged bewildered glances. Jezreel turned to her companions and her brows furrowed at their mutual expression of confusion.

"Can't you see them?" Jezreel asked incredulously.

Lily and Jowan shook their heads in tandem as he spoke: "There's nothing there, love."

“What do these wards look like?" Lily asked.

"A cross within a circle crowned by three pips, a thrice slashed triangle resting on a half-arc…" Jezreel began but stopped when she heard Lily gasp. "What?"

“Those are Templar runes! I've seen drawings of them in some of the old Chantry tomes – they are supposed to be invisible to mages – how could you possibly see them?!"

"Good question…" Jezreel said, baffled. "I haven't a clue." The three stood in awkward silence, unsettled by this strange and unexpected impediment.

"If we can't use the rod, then that's it!" cried Lily in sudden realization. "We're done for – we'll never get Jowan's phylactery." She threw her arms about Jowan's neck and he held her tightly, his cheek pressed against her hair.

"There must be another way," Jezreel said, contemplating. "The other door, where does it lead?"

Lily sniffed as she looked up from where her face had been pressed into Jowan's shoulder: "I'm not sure, storage areas? Perhaps, adjacent to the Repository? What are the chances of finding another entrance into the phylactery vault?"

"I don't know, darling, but we must try," Jowan gave her a small, encouraging smile as he gently brushed tears from her cheeks, "If you still want to marry me, that is."

Lily let out a giggle and nodded, then raised her lips to him; Jowan kissed her tenderly.

Jezreel looked away. Despite her earlier misgivings, unbidden thoughts surfaced in her mind:  _"Fate" is cruel. I'll never experience love like that. I will be a Grey Warden; my life will be all darkspawn and fighting and nothing more._

She was yanked from her bitter musing by the soft creaking of hinges. She strode quickly to where Jowan and Lily were peering through the doorframe of the lesser portal. The stone corridor beyond appeared deserted. The three passed cautiously through the doorway and proceeded down the corridor. Rounding a corner, they spotted several doors dotted the long hall. Carefully and quietly they checked each one, their hopes fading as each revealed small, dimly lit storerooms and antechambers with no sign of their objective.

Coming to the last door at the end of the corridor, they exchanged grim looks. It was bolted with a wrought iron lock. Jezreel handed the rod of fire to Jowan who inserted the slender cylinder into the lock. A crackling sound filled the air for a moment, as the lock glowed molten red. A wave of heat emitted from the metal then faded abruptly as they heard a soft click. With a sigh, Jowan turned the handle and pushed it open – only to draw a sharp breath and let out a low whistle as he stepped into a massive chamber filled with ancient, bizarre relics and artifacts. They wandered about the spacious hall with a mixture of fascination and anxiety; examining curiosities and oddities collected from the far reaches of Thedas.

Turning a corner between massive wooden cases, Jezreel came upon an obscure stone statue, draped in centuries of neglect: the figure of a woman with striking features and elaborate robes, an ornate staff held upright in her outstretched hand. Jezreel stood transfixed by the strange effigy. A sudden wave of magical energy emanated from the statue – a profound sorrow. Jowan trailed behind her, coming up to peer over her shoulder as she stood, mesmerized.

 "There's something odd about that statue," Jowan said slowly. "It looks, almost, as if it were alive…"

"Such sorrow, regret. Such – loss…" Jezreel's voice was tinged with wondering empathy. "Who is she?" Jezreel looked about for a plaque or provenance but found nothing.

"Best leave it alone, little one," Jowan said as he grasped her hand and turned to lead her away.

 

"Greetings."

 

Brother and sister whirled about at the low, unfamiliar tone that had addressed them. The statue stood unmoved.

"Maker's Breath!" Jowan cried. "Did that thing just speak?!"

Jezreel took a cautious step closer and addressed the statue: "Greetings. What is your name?"

"I am the essence and spirit of Eleni Zonovia," the voice was low and airy; the quality dry, ancient. Jezreel imagined it sounded just as a glittering cloud of stirred dust would sound if it were to unexpectedly speak. "I was once consort and trusted advisor to Archon Valerius - until I was cursed to stone for all eternity."

Archon Valerius?" Jezreel looked at Jowan. "The Archon's were the rulers of the Tevinter Imperium." – she turned her attention back to the statue – "For what crime?"

"Prophecy. I foretold the fall of my lord's house."

She and Jowan exchanged awed glances. The statue continued:

 

"He passed judgment upon me saying: 'Forever shall you stand at the threshold of my proud fortress and speak your lies to all who pass.' But my esteemed Lord found brutal death at the hands of his enemies and his once-great fortress crumbled into dust and ruin, just as I had foretold," her voice was filled with immeasurable grief.

"A Tevinter statue!" cried Lily as she rounded a corner to see Jowan and Jezreel transfixed upon the effigy. "The Tevinter lords dabbled in many forbidden arts! Come away both of you – this is a wicked thing!"

"How did a Tevinter statue come to be here in the Tower?" Jezreel mused. "It must have been here for ages, judging by the dust. I pity her so…"

"Tevinter or no, I have to admit, I feel a little sorry for it…her," Jowan whispered, "but something is unsettled here. Lily's right, let's leave it be."

"Weep not for me, child. Stone they made me and stone will I remain, eternal and unchanging. So shall I endure, until the Maker himself return to light their fires again," the statue addressed Jezreel pensively.

"What does that mean?" Jezreel puzzled.

“Ambiguous rubbish…" Jowan shifted, uneasy. "It could mean anything. I can be cryptic too: the sun grows dark, but lo, here comes the dawn!" His voice rose nervously.

"Stop talking to it both of you!" Lily cried in exasperation. She grabbed Jowan's hand and began pulling. "Let's go, darling. Now."

Jezreel regarded the statue once more, then sighed: "It's not useful to our purpose, anyway." She turned and followed Jowan and Lily down the furniture formed pathway into the center of the chamber. The three stood silent for several minutes, trying to ascertain a sense of direction.

"That wall," said Lily. "The phylactery vault should be directly on the other side of it. But…I don't see a door." Her lower lip trembled in disappointment causing her lover to sigh despondently.

"Jezreel?" Jowan said and she met his gaze. She nodded in unspoken understanding. Moving to the far corner of the wall, she raised her hands orienting her palms parallel to the massive stone barrier. Closing her eyes, she reached out with her senses; moving along the wall, searching for any magical disturbance or physical weakness. Jowan and Lily stood in restless anticipation. Finally, about halfway along the length of the stone-face, Jezreel stilled abruptly; a large wooden bookcase directly before her. Tilting her head inquisitively, she moved to the edge of the case and slid her palm gingerly between the back of the smooth wood and the stone barrier, laying it flush against the wall. She smiled, her eyes fluttering open.

"Jowan! Lily!" she called. "Come, help me shift this."

They ran to her and, after a concerted effort, the three were able to swing the heavy bookcase out - almost as if opening a door. Panting, they examined the portion of the wall the case had concealed. A faint arch was visible against the, otherwise, uninterrupted pattern of the ancient stones and those that filled the portal were much smaller; the mortar showing obvious cracks and chips.

"There was a doorway here," Jezreel said. "It's been bricked over but the stones are weak – maybe we can use the rod to break them down enough to crawl through…" Jowan grabbed her around the waist, swinging her about, before pulling her into an enthusiastic hug.

"You are a wonder, little one!" he smiled, hope returning to his voice. He handed her the rod of fire. "You do it – you're much more powerful than I am."

Jezreel moved back several paces and turned to face the weakened stones while Jowan and Lily hastily retreated to a cautious distance to observe. Aiming the rod at the center of the structure, she channeled as much magic into the tool as it could handle. A crackling flame erupted from the point and struck the mark; hungry tendrils of heat licking vainly at the stone. After half a minute, she stopped, lowering the rod and allowing the residual magic to drain back. She eyed her target; the stone was charred but intact.

"Blood and ashes!" she cursed, as her companions approached. "It just isn't powerful enough…I can only channel so much magic into it without destroying the rod itself. I'm…I'm sorry."

"If you cast a spell – a powerful one – maybe…maybe…" tremors filled Lily's voice as her eyes welled.

"No. To cast a spell powerful enough to break the stones without a way to focus the magic would be suicide," Jowan said mournfully, placing a gentle hand on his lover's shoulder. "It would likely destroy the contents of the entire chamber including the three of us."

The companions stood in silent regret.  _Despite my magic, despite that I am fated_ , Jezreel thought bitterly, _I am powerless to help. Forgive me, brother – I have failed._ The knowledge of what that meant for Jowan's future brought a creeping sensation of horror. Even if Jowan and Lily managed to safely escape in the boat that was waiting concealed against the rocky shore of the Tower, as long as the Templar's had Jowan's phylactery, he would be hunted mercilessly. He would never be safe, never able to rest, and eventually he would be caught and punished; death would be a welcome relief to the alternative. She shuddered as despair began to clutch her heart with icy fingers.

A slow sensation of pointed interest came over Jezreel, a magical aura pushing for her attention. Vaguely, her thoughts wandered back to "Eleni." Suddenly, a dusty voice invaded their reverie:

"Despair not. Salvation is near."

Jezreel startled, whirling to face the corner were the Tevinter statue stood, unmoved. Surprise and suspicion flitted across her face in quick succession.

"What do you mean? What 'salvation'?" she hurled the questions at the effigy as her eyes darted around the chamber.

"The answer you seek stares at you even now."

Jezreel felt a charge of anger build deep in her core. She rounded on the statue, her voice releasing the lightening that sparked and coursed just beneath her skin:

"Speak plainly or be silent – corrupted creature! I will not tolerate your obscure riddles while my brother's life hangs by a thread."

As her voice echoed around the yawning chamber, the magical energy exuded by the statue changed from languid interest to astonished submission. For a moment, Jezreel had the distinct impression that if Eleni could move her stone form, she would be cowering. The voice from the statue remained steady, but held a subservient quality and addressed her formally:

"The feline, Serah, it is a magical foci. A rare creation, its greatest secrets lost with the Ancients, but I can assure you it will amplify any magic directed through it with precise control."

Jezreel whirled about, her eyes landing on the gaze of a stone cat about a pace tall, the eyes inset with a strange red crystal. Examining it carefully, she saw that a channel carved into the rear of the head revealed the termination of the facets. She tested the weight. It was surprisingly light. Jezreel flicked a glance over her shoulder, there was a pedestal supporting a vase opposite her about ten paces. Lifting the strange feline figure, she called over her shoulder: "Jowan, the pedestal!"

Jowan and Lily stood gaping at her, still shocked by the bizarre exchange she'd had with the Tevinter effigy. Jowan jumped at his name and hurriedly complied. Within a few moments, the figure sat on the pedestal, its eyes level with the charred marks.

"Are you really going to believe that vile thing?!" exclaimed Lily, as Jezreel positioned herself behind the stone cat and held the rod level with the strange crystals. Jezreel felt a twinge of annoyance with the girl and replied pointedly: "Do we have a choice?"

Lily looked at Jowan, taking his hand, she whispered: "I guess not." Jowan lead her behind a sturdy wooden chest; crouching, he pulled her down beside him and nodded at his sister.

Straightening her shoulders, Jezreel relaxed her frame, her eyes lidded heavily.  _Control_. Channeling magic through the rod, it splintered into the crystals and they began to glow brilliantly. In an instant, a single bolt of molten magic projected from the sparkling facets, slamming into the charred stone with a loud, crackling hiss. Jezreel pulled the flows back and examined the wall. She smiled - the stones were visibly fractured. Resuming her stance, she repeated the assault twice in rapid sequence. With the last blast of fiery magic, the stone barrier crumbled, leaving a portal large enough to comfortably slip through.

"You did it!" Jowan and Lily exclaimed together. Jezreel flashed a smile, her cheeks flushed. Remembering the benevolent specter, she strode over to regard the statue.

"Thank you, Eleni."

"I exist to serve, Serah. Forgive me. I did not recognize you as one of the chosen, the fated. I sense immense power in you. Your struggle will be greater than any I have yet foretold. The storm gathers and you will pay the dearest price before the dawn breaks but you are  _strong enough_. Persevere and you will be rewarded with your heart's greatest desire, the-" Eleni stopped abruptly and her voice became urgent. "Go, Serah, time dwindles and the danger grows."

A serious expression clouded Jezreel's faced and she turned without another word. A sense of impending peril formed a knot in her stomach. Gathering Lily and Jowan, the three slipped, silently through the fissured stone and into the Vault.

 


	7. ...And Into the Fire

It was cold – unnaturally cold – and Jezreel shivered as the dry air licked at her skin.  A glance at her companions revealed, they too, were affected by the changed atmosphere. The entire Phylactery Vault was under some icy enchantment and a white mist clung to the stone floor, seeming offended at the footsteps that disturbed its placid surface. The three tread carefully forward into the large open room, their objective so nearly attained. A smaller platform level with a stone staircase lay directly ahead of them. On that dais, they could see shelves laden with the small vials that contained the blood of every student in the Tower and - somewhere among them - the one that held Jowan’s freedom.

            “It must be there, quickly!” exclaimed Lily, surging ahead of the siblings.

            “Lily! Wait!” Jezreel cried, her warning too late.

            The two suits of armor that stood, guarding the landing of the stairs, sprang to life as Lily came within the wards that activated them – shimmering white glyphs on the stone floor, resembling the ones that had surrounded the main door to the Vault. Jezreel realized too late that only she could perceive them. The Sentinels hoisted axes and paired off against them, the shining metal creaking in the enchanted cold.

Lily gasped in surprise and pulled a dagger from beneath her robes, though it was obvious from her grip that she knew little of how to use it. Instinctively, the siblings moved in front of her, taking a defensive stance as Jezreel pulled the staff from the clutch upon her back. The mages began unleashing bolts of energy and and blasts of flame with little effect. The icy mist began to roil as they engaged the creaking suits in close quarters.

One of Jowan’s bolts took off the left arm of the Sentinel that had attacked him, and he crowed triumphantly as the arm fell, the axe still grasped in its gauntlet. The Sentinel paused but a moment, before reaching down and clasping the haft of the axe with its remaining arm. It seemed to regard Jowan with annoyance then proceeded to attack again with increased vigor.

Jezreel dodged a swing from the animated armor and shouted at her brother: “All you did was make it mad! Come on, Jowan!”

Jowan glared at her as an axe narrowly missed him once more. “Nothing seems to be affecting them, so if you have any bright ideas, sister dear-“

Jezreel swung her staff around drawing magic to cast once more, and accidentally connected with the helm of her metal opponent, twisting it off kilter. The Sentinel spun in a circle and began swinging wildly, the blade making nefarious sounds as it cut through the cold air.

“The helm, Jowan!” she cried, “Knock the helm off!”

“Is that all! And I thought this would be difficult!” Jowan called sarcastically. “Andraste’s ass!” He yelped as he caught the haft of the wicked blade the Sentinel was heaving down on him, as if he were no more than a log to be split. Miraculously, he wrenched it out of the grip of the metal maniac and swung it with all his might. The helm broke from the body of the suit and skittered into the mist. The headless Sentinel staggered, then collapsed onto the stone, and was still.

Running up behind the Sentinel attacking Jezreel he paused, looking for an opening, then pounced. He swung the axe straight down, shattering the helm. The second Sentinel buckled and clattered into a lifeless heap at Jezreel’s feet.

Jowan dropped the axe, bracing his hands on his knees, and gasping. Jezreel slid her staff into its rest on her back and caught her brother’s gaze. A lopsided grin slowly spread itself over Jowan’s lips: “Any more bright ideas?” The two erupted in laughter.

Lily approached the siblings as their hysterical giggling began to subside; she gaped at them, the dagger in her hand forgotten.  Jowan straightened and pulled the small blade from her fingers, tucking it into his robe.

“Are you all right, darling,” he asked, worriedly, and cupped her face between his hands. “ _Lily_?” he prodded when she didn’t respond.

“Just frightened,” she finally answered and gave him a weak smile.

“We’re almost free, love, just hold on a while longer,” he whispered and enveloped her in his arms. They shared a tender caress; the danger of their predicament, temporarily, forgotten.

Jezreel had proceeded up the steps to where the phylacteries were housed and now stood in the center of the platform, surrounded by the vile little philters of blood. She began searching carefully along the shelves, her distaste increasing by the second, and soon found what she sought. In a corner case sat the phylactery that radiated the familiar energy of her brother.

“Here – I found it!”                                       

 Jowan and Lily sheepishly smiled at each other, still glowing from their stolen moment, then hurried to where she stood - holding her prize aloft. Jowan snatched it from her hand and stared at it in horrified fascination.

“You found it!” he breathed. “Can you believe these tiny bits of frozen glass are all that imprison us here? _These_ brittle vials - the only thing binding mages to this infernal Tower?” He held it out at arm length, twirling it about in his fingers.

“It’s so small…so fragile…” -an insidious smile passed over his lips- “so…easy…to simply be rid of it. Break its hold and you are…” his voice trailed off as he let the crucible slip from his fingers and shatter against the stone floor in a splash of crimson.

“…free.”

 

~oOo~

 

“Hurry,” Jowan whispered, his voice urgent. “The clock is ticking and it’s nearly daybreak! We’re almost free!”

The three had left the Repository behind and now fled up the long stone staircase to the great hall where they had entered. Jowan paused at the landing, turning to embrace his sister.

“Thank you, little one,” his voice broke and he pressed his lips to her forehead, “We couldn’t have done this without you. I guess this is good-bye…” His eyes brimmed and Jezreel kissed his cheek.

“We’ll find each other again someday,” a sad smile graced her features, “I promise. Don’t worry about me, brother. I love you.”

The siblings embraced each other tightly for another brief moment before Jezreel gently pushed Jowan back and spoke, nodding at the side door to the gardens.

 

“Go.”

 

Jowan turned and took Lily’s hand but before they could take even a step, a harsh voice invaded the silence:

“So what you said was true, Irving.”

The three whirled about to find Greagoir and the First Enchanter approaching them - accompanied by a detachment of six Templars. The two mages nearly fell to their knees, breath knocked from their lungs, as the Templars combined force drained their mana in an instant.

“G-Greagoir,” Lily’s voice trembled with abject fear.

“An Initiate conspiring with a _Maleficar_ ,” Greagoir spat the words in disgust, “and you – newly a mage and already flouting the laws of the Circle. Shocked that your little plan failed?” He turned a venomous gaze upon Lily.

“You seem to be in control of your faculties – not a thrall of the Blood Mage, then,” He jutted his chin angrily in the direction of the two Templars nearest Lily. “Seize her and take her to Aeonar for trial.”

“No…not Aeonar…that’s the mages prison…I’ll be executed…” Lily’s voice was saturated with despair and Jezreel wished she was wrong about the choice she sensed the girl make then.

“No!” Jowan’s strangled cry echoed off the vaulted ceiling. “I won’t let you take her!”

He reached out to shove her behind him, but she spun out of his grasp:

“No! No – he tricked me!” She gasped. “He put me under a blood spell – it’s not my fault!” She pointed a shaking finger at Jowan, backing herself inadvertently closer to the two Templars. Jowan froze, his eyes locked on her accusing face in horrified disbelief.

“Lily…please, no…” His whisper was hauntingly vacant.

“Take her,” Greagoir ordered flatly. Lily whirled about at the chilling sound of scraping metal, to see the two Templars advancing on her with swords flashing menacingly in the flickering torchlight. Jezreel grabbed Jowan’s arm pulling him back beside her as Lily shrieked wildly and attempted to dart past the Templars. Jezreel heard the sickening sound of flesh splitting against iron and Lily slid silently to the floor – lifeless.

 Time seemed to slow to a crawl: Greagoir’s smug amusement, the Templars’ apathy, Irving’s sadness, and Jowan’s heartache coupled with blind rage hit her in successive waves. Jowan’s roaring heartbeat pulsed deafeningly in her head. She sensed - rather than saw - him reach for the knife tucked into his robe and reacted instinctively; grabbing his arm with enough force to spin them both so that their backs were now to the mob of Templars surrounding them.

 They struggled, for a moment, and as Jezreel tried to rip the dagger from Jowan’s hand, it sliced deeply through the center of his palm. Warm drops of blood trickled off his fingers, splattering on the cold stones at their feet. In that moment, time stopped and Jezreel experienced something completely alien: the potent temptation of blood magic. An oily darkness that hummed seductively in her mind, rushing in to fill the gaping void left by her drained mana and pushing her violently to the edge of a precipice. Her eyes flitted to Jowan’s, his intention apparent and his willpower shattered by grief. _Jowan isn’t strong enough to fight this – I have to save him from himself. He has to escape._ She swallowed hard, her teeth gritted. _Andraste have mercy upon me…_

Acting solely on instinct, Jezreel drew a deep breath, heeding the dark call. The slick, oily taint of forbidden magic slithered through her soul as she latched on to Jowan’s life-force to fuel her casting. Pressure built exponentially within her as Jowan’s grip on the dagger faltered, realization flooded his eyes and she felt him go lightheaded. The dark power whispered at the fringes of her mind, tempting her to take every drop of blood and utterly drain him of life. Her vision changed, becoming both sharp and translucent in tandem, the aura of her entire world shifting. She realized, suddenly, that the blood magic was thinning the Veil – exposing her to the unsavory predators of the Fade.

Time sped up: Irving was calling to her anxiously, Greagoir barked furious orders, and the Templars had all now drawn their swords and began advancing on the siblings in coordinated formation.

Her soul struggled desperately to combat the overwhelming exhilaration of power. Her one hand flew to her breast, clutching at the pendant hanging there and allowing it to anchor her. Wrenching her willpower free of the Fade’s malevolent hold, she released the blood spell in a red wave of magical force that knocked their aggressors off their feet and to the stone floor – unconscious.

 

~oOo~

 

Jowan stood, unaffected by the blast radius, gazing at the aftermath in shock. Jezreel surveyed the effects, with both horror and relief, and shivered as the Veil closed violently in the void of the casting. A familiar energy drew her gaze to the stone archway at the entrance of the cavernous great room. Duncan stood there transfixed, his keen eyes registering awe…that was quickly replaced by urgent concern. He strode towards them with purpose and Jezreel groaned internally. _Maker, what side will he take? It doesn’t matter – I have to get Jowan out of here!_

Jezreel tore a thin strip of fabric from the hem of her robe and hurriedly bound Jowan’s hand as she spoke in a low, sharp tone: “Jowan, are you all right?”

His eyes drifted to her vacantly, his expression dazed.

“Jowan? Jowan, answer me – can you make it to the boat?”

“Lily…” His voice trailed weakly. His brows knitted with grief as his gaze rested on her still form. The sound of Jezreel’s palm striking his cheek echoed sharply off the stone, rocking his head back with surprising force and jolting him to his senses.

“Lily is gone, Jowan. You can grieve once you’re safe but, right now, we have to get you out of here!”

“Only if you come with me, little one, you’re-” His voice broke, “you’re all I have.”

“I _can’t_ , Jowan – my phylactery was sent to Denerim. If I go with you the Templars will be able to track me and they will find us! You have to go – now!” Jezreel pleaded. Jowan’s lips pressed into a thin line and he shook his head stubbornly: “I won’t leave you alone to face Aeonar or execution.”

 

“You have made quite a mess here and, in turn, placed me in an exceedingly awkward position…”

 

Jezreel turned to face Duncan as he approached, stepping over the unconscious First Enchanter and Templars. Jowan grabbed her arm, pulling her close and stepping forward protectively. One of the Templars groaned, propping himself up by his arm and rubbing his eyes with a trembling hand. To the sibling’s astonishment, Duncan nonchalantly booted the man in the back of the head as he stepped over him – rendering him unconscious once again. He stopped in front of the siblings and opened his mouth, but Jezreel spoke first.

“Duncan, I decided last night to accept your offer – that is, if it still stands?” Her mouth was dry and her breath hitched in anticipation of his response.

“It did – does.” Duncan spoke quickly, keeping a wary eye on the bodies littering the floor. “But this little…display… complicates things considerably. Even if Irving is willing, Greagoir will never allow you to voluntarily join the Wardens now and, if I employ the Rite of Conscription, the wrath of the Chantry will overshadow the Wardens for a century for depriving them of bringing a _blood mage_ to justice.”

“I didn’t…I mean…I don’t…I had no other choice…” Jezreel’s face fell but Duncan held up his hand.

“You did what was necessary to defend your family,” He stated. “That is a quality that the Wardens value highly, so you need not be concerned for self-righteous judgment from me. You know why I recruited you. You know what is at stake – however – the dilemma of ‘rescuing’ you from Greagoir’s ‘justice’ without causing irreparable damage to the Grey Wardens remains.”

 

“Me.”

 

Duncan and Jezreel’s faces swiveled to Jowan in tandem. Jowan’s tongue darted across his lips and his eyes flicked back and forth between their faces before holding Duncan’s steely gaze.

“They already think I’m a Maleficar and nothing is going to convince them otherwise. There’s also no way they could have distinguished which of us performed the casting-“

“Jowan, no!” Jezreel exclaimed. He ignored her, speaking to Duncan imperatively.

“Lay the whole of the blame on me. You defend her and you conscript her into the Grey Wardens. I disappear and the Templars and Chantry never know the truth.”

Jowan held out his hand to Duncan: “Agreed?”

Duncan regarded Jowan with frank respect and nodded as he clasped his own hand about Jowan’s wrist and held it: “Agreed.”

“You can follow us to Ostagar…we can stay together-” Jezreel began but Jowan shook his head determinedly, cutting her off.

“No, little one, there are too many Templars and Circle Mages at Ostagar that would recognize me and news of this… _incident_ …will travel faster than you,” he smiled regretfully. Jezreel threw her arms about his neck and he embraced her tightly, his bound hand briefly stroking her curls. He kissed her forehead before gently pushing her back.

 “I will find you again, someday, little sister,” he placed her palm over the pendant that hung against his chest, “and never forget that I love you.”

“I love you, too,” the tears welling in Jezreel’s eyes spilled into her whisper.

A dull chorus of disoriented groans swelled to greet their ears and Jowan turned to flee.

He stopped short, turning back to Duncan and giving him a hard stare:

“Take care of her.”

Duncan tilted his head to Jowan: “You have my word.”

With that assurance, Jowan disappeared through the side door and into the dawn.

 

 


End file.
